


Convenience

by noussommeslessquelettes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hockey, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Adoptive Siblings, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, Laith, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lance (Voltron) is a Drake fan, M/M, Mutual Pining, National Hockey League, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), POV Keith (Voltron), Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith/Lance (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Queer Themes, Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Sports, Toronto, Trans Female Pidge | Katie Holt, Underage Drinking, klance, that's my new tag ao3 u better put it out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noussommeslessquelettes/pseuds/noussommeslessquelettes
Summary: Keith Kogane, a rookie phenom in the world of hockey, has just been drafted first overall to one of the biggest hockey franchises in the National Hockey League. His goal? To survive his first season of professional hockey--a reasonable aim if you ask him. But it’s complicated by two things: 1. he might be closeted, and 2. he might just have a thing for the cute cashier at the convenience store across the street.





	1. Thirty Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Shiro are in town for draft weekend. Keith suffers embarrassment at the hands of his older brother when he strikes up a conversation with a convenience store clerk who just happens to be a major hockey fan. Despite sporting a blush far too deep to originate solely from shame, Keith dismisses the encounter with the stranger as insignificant, a one-off.
> 
> Until a month-and-a-half later, when they meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (pls join hands in my prayer circle that this is gonna upload properly. I'm so bad with the AO3 UI that I basically turn into an eighty year old trying to view photos of my grandkids on my iPad when I try to upload fic)
> 
> Hi there and welcome to yet another self-indulgent sports fic from me: ur friendly neighbourhood Klance-obsessed fanfic writer. I cranked half of the first draft of this in the span of like a week and a half, I was so pumped to write it.
> 
> You've heard of me [forcing my love of gymnastics onto the klance fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821705), now get ready for me to force my love of hockey onto the klance fandom. As I always must, I will provide brief explanations of some of the hockey terminology I use because some of that shit gets a little weird lol. For this chapter, the only thing you need to know is what development and training camps are. Development camp happens after the draft and it's basically the first time new drafts and potential players get medical and on-ice testing. Training camp is more or less the same thing for the purposes of your understanding--testing--but returning players also attend, and it's pretty much the first chance they have in the new season to prove themselves worthy of being put on the roster and get a good position on it.
> 
> Another thing (less hockey, more general pro sports): the "draft lottery" refers to the process by which teams are given the order of picks in the draft. At least in the NHL's case, the only teams eligible to win the draft lottery (AKA picking 1st over all) are those who don't make it into the playoffs in the season prior. The lower you rank, the greater your chance at winning the lottery, and the last-place team can choose no lower than 2nd overall. UNLESS they've changed the rules on me, but for the purposes of this fic and my fucking sanity let's say they haven't.
> 
> This is the first multichapter fanfic I’m doing periodic updates for, which is both nerve-wracking and exciting for me! The fic in whole is complete, and it will be uploaded in full barring like idefk the destruction of the internet. A new chapter will be uploaded weekly until the fic is done, with the exception of the last chap and the epilogue, which will both be uploaded together. I know that means if you subscribe to the story you’ll get two emails, but I really wanna keep my formatting lol sorry guys.
> 
> I always talk about the inspos for my fics and tbh a Big Inspo for this one was [this gorg fanart of Lance by Kazooroo](https://kazooroo.tumblr.com/post/174538799889/leandro-king-of-fashion-very-cool-available-for), and my inability to control myself when I see fashionable Lance. Christi idek if ur ever gonna see this but this fandom didn’t deserve the beauty of ur fanart. Thanks for inspiring me to write yet another godforsaken sports au for these dum boyos.
> 
> I’d like to say that as much as I try, I recognise that I might miss trigger tags. If you’d like me to trigger tag something retroactively please let me know! I personally have triggers so there’s no judgement, children.
> 
> Btw all the characters in this fic are fictional. I’m not about to try and characterise actual NHL players, I have enough trouble wrangling the not real ones lmfao. Plus then I can make OCs which is mucho fun.
> 
> One last thing: Torontonians might notice a realism error in this chapter. It gets corrected in the next one dw (I made the mistake in the first chapter and then figured it out in the second so instead of taking it out I kept it in for Realism sake--characters make mistakes, as did I!!!! This isn’t being lazy this is putting variety and texture in my writing I’ve decided now)

“Thirty seconds.” That was Shiro’s promise, paired with a meek smile and a hand beckoning Keith to follow, while the other pulled open the barred glass door of a tiny convenience store. He wasted little time slipping through the tiny sliver of an opening he’d made, not waiting to see if Keith would come along.

Now, if Keith knew his brother well—and really, after about fourteen years, how could he not?—‘thirty seconds’ translated loosely to a minimum of five minutes of idle banter with whatever poor soul was manning the counter and had the misfortune of encountering a chatty Shiro before they actually got what he wanted (a pack of gum, according to the last ten minutes of whining Keith had been subjected to.) Now, since they were out of town, that time would be approximately doubled.

Keith huffed, tilting his head back to consider the clear sky above from behind his sunglasses, its appearance a testament to the downright balmy afternoon they’d been walking in. It might not be the Arizona-brand heat he was used to, but Keith figured Toronto’s thousands of looming skyscrapers acted as an insulator for the heat, reflecting and trapping the sunlight and humidity down onto the streets. And after a whole afternoon of baking beneath it all as he meandered through town with Shiro, he’d be far better off hiding away in the store as Shiro prattled on than waiting out here for him. At least inside, he’d possibly have air conditioning.

A bell sounded over his head, announcing his entrance and turning a pair of heads. One, naturally, was Shiro’s; he’d already taken up residence on the front counter, leaning on his elbows and crossing his ankles beneath him.

“Nice of you to join us,” he commented airily, before turning back to his conversation partner.

“Hey,” offered the other, perched on a stool behind the counter—a young guy, clad in a loose-fitting tank that left nothing of his skinny frame to the imagination, tan face tinged with a touch of crimson that everyone in the city’d been wearing under the heat advisory, bright blue eyes crinkling with a charming smile—

_ Focus, Keith _ . He gave a cordial nod, decided it’d be safest to keep his sunglasses on, and picked up his pace towards a shelf of canned beans. Somehow, the burn of his cheeks had intensified after he’d stepped out of the sun and into the A/C—funny how that could happen. Discreetly, he reached into his pocket for his phone and turned his music down, scanning the shelves’ contents idly as he listened over their conversation, lifting his eyes every now and again to sneak a peek.

“Some weather we’re having,” the boy picked back up, his volume making Keith wonder if he’d even needed to turn his headphones down in the first place. He paced slowly down the tiny aisle towards the far wall of fridges, continuing to keep an eye on things as he perused.

“You’re telling me,” Shiro laughed, “my arm’s basically hot enough to fry an egg on!” He waved his metal prosthetic in demonstration, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the cute—the  _ guy  _ behind the register. “But nah, we’re used to the heat; we’re from down south.”

“Oh? What brings you guys up to Toronto?”  _ Cheronna _ , he said it—‘ _ that’s how the locals pronounce it _ ,’ Shiro had told Keith before they’d left, ‘ _ that’s how  _ you’ll _ have to learn to say it _ .’

“Nothing much. Heard a lot of good things about the city, so we thought we’d check it out,” he outright lied— _ why the hell was he _ — “Nice flag; you a Leafs fan?”

_ Oh _ . Keith glanced over, catching sight of the city’s pro hockey team’s logo hanging proudly over the rack of cigarettes behind the counter, affixed on a white background between two stripes of royal blue as homage to the nation’s flag.

“Oh hell yeah,” he practically cheered, “my parents have been fans since they moved to Canada—I was _raised_ on this team.” Keith ducked a bit further behind the shelf of crackers, infinitely thankful for the foresight to keep his sunglasses on.

Shiro hummed thoughtfully. “You guys just had quite the brutal season, didn’t you?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, as though the words had knocked the wind out of him. “Oof, don’t remind me.” In the blink of an eye, his demeanour shifted back to cheerful. “But hey, that’s all in the past! We’ve got a lot of developing talent in the minors,  _ plus  _ we won the draft lottery this year, thanks to us tanking the season.”

“Really?” Shiro  _ had  _ to realise how fake his mock-surprise sounded—that, or this guy should’ve been able to.

“Yep!”  _ Orrr maybe not _ , Keith thought. It’s a good thing this guy was cute, because brains  _ clearly _ weren’t his strong suit. “Actually it’s funny that you mention it, ‘cause the draft’s this weekend, right here in the city! All the big wigs are in town—my best friend  _ swears  _ she saw Gary Bettman at Yonge Dundas Square yesterday—but, like, she’s got to be crazy, right? Guys like that don’t just  _ waltz around town _ with nothing better to do. Anyway—” he waved a hand between them both, dismissing that train of thought while Keith was still struggling to figure out what station it’d left from.

Shiro didn’t seem afflicted with the same struggle, picking the conversation back up effortlessly. “So first pick, who do you think they’re going to draft?” Keith rolled his eyes, knowing the answer was invariably—

“Oh  _ Keith Kogane _ , for sure!” The excitement in his voice sent Keith’s stomach churning—of course Shiro _ just had to _ bring it up. “That kid’s skill is unparallelled—he’s practically a rocket on skates, and have you  _ seen  _ his stick handling? I swear to you he’s hiding magnets in his blade. Any GM who’d pass him up would get  _ instantly  _ run over by an angry mob in the streets.”

Shiro laughed heartily—did he  _ enjoy  _ publicly humiliating Keith like this?—while Keith turned to peruse the drinks, using the reflection of the glass to watch them now. “You think so?”

The guy scoffed. “Pfft, me and this whole damn city. There’s a lot of people saying he’s going to be the one to bring us back the cup—‘bout time, too.” God, he’s not even been drafted yet, and people are already putting the Stanley Cup on his shoulders—he knew Toronto’s reputation going in, but stuff like this was absolutely ridiculous.

“And what do  _ you  _ say?” Shiro reached under the counter for the pack of gum they’d goddamn come for in the first place, slapping it down on the table between them.

He gave an uncertain hum. “He won’t hurt our chances—that’s for sure—but I think he’s just a piece. An  _ important  _ piece maybe, but you can’t play the game with only one stick on the ice. Buck-seventy-five, by the way.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” Shiro replied, pulling a few choice coins from his pocket and sliding them over the counter.

He accepted the coins—Keith imagined with another dazzling smile—and opened the till, tossing them in. “Well, I hope you guys enjoy the rest of your time in the city—just promise me you won’t take the hot weather with you when you leave.”

“We’ll do our best,” he pocketed the gum, “but something tells me we’ll be back soon enough.” He turned towards the coolers now, calling, “we’re leaving!”  _ entirely _ too loud.

“I can  _ hear you _ ,” Keith replied tersely, spinning on his heel and stalking back towards the front door. He kept his head low, hoping mister ‘Number One Keith Fan’ wouldn’t find his behaviour odd, or at least not think about it hard enough until they were out the door.

“ _ Teenagers _ ,” Shiro stage-whispered to counter guy, though he looked like he possibly was one himself, “am I right?” He failed to dodge a kick Keith aimed at his shins in passing, clicking his tongue reprimandingly as he followed him to the door. “Thanks,” he called back.

“Any time, take care,” was the reply, the tail end of it drowned out by the combination  _ whoosh  _ and  _ clacks  _ of a streetcar chugging past. Keith finally let up on his speedy pace once he led them down the sidewalk far enough to be out of ‘hey wait don’t I know you?’ territory.

“Was there a point to that?” He grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“A confidence boost can’t hurt.” Keith scoffed that off, so Shiro tried another angle. “ _ And _ , if you’re going to play for this team, you’ll have to get used to the fans.”

He rolled his eyes. “Get ready for them to burn me at the stake the first time I fuck up, you mean.”

Shiro shrugged, jerking his head back towards the convenience store. “He seemed pretty reasonable.”

“ _ He _ is just one of them. There’s plenty more out there waiting for a reason to skin me alive.”

Shiro clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re going to have your good games and your bad. And you’ll survive it all, I promise.”

Keith was thinking more along the lines of the ‘ogling cute guys’ thing, but he kept that to himself. The two of them—along with the rest of the hockey world—were well aware of Toronto’s reputation for decimating its players for the tiniest flaws. And in a league like the NHL, being gay was anything but a ‘tiny’ flaw.

But as far as Shiro knew, Keith’s greatest fear was the notorious Toronto press tearing apart a no-point game, not the prospect of living the next few decades having to hide his identity while being one of the biggest players in one of the biggest hockey cities in the world. Or worse: failing at that.

“Now get excited, you’re going to be an  _ NHL player _ ,” he slung his arm over Keith’s shoulder, squeezing tight, “your dream’s about to come true.”

Keith rolled his eyes, permitting a small smile to form on his lips. “I  _ am _ , it’s just…”

“Nerve-wracking,” Shiro supplied. Keith shrugged, about as close to the honest ‘yes’ as he could get. “I get it. It’s new, and new’s always going to be a bit scary. But that’s why we’re here, to get used to it—and that’s why I’m here too: so you won’t be doing this alone.”

Keith begged to differ, but kept that to himself. “And ‘cause mom doesn’t trust me to live by myself.”

Shiro laughed. “ _ None _ of us do—not yet, anyway.”

Keith elbowed him in the side, leaning away from his amicable hold. “You’re so  _ sweaty _ .” Shiro simply laughed, pulling him in tighter.

* * *

For the tenth time in the six hours since they’d moved into the condo, Keith ripped open the pantry doors and found the shelves bare. Just as bare as they were ten minutes ago, and just as bare as they would be when he opened them up again in another few minutes.

“ _ Ughhh _ ,” he moaned pitifully, dropping his hands and draping himself over the counter, “we don’t have any food,” he called out.

“Eat the leftover pizza,” Shiro called back, his response bouncing off the walls.

“I  _ ate  _ the leftover pizza.”

“ _ Hockey players _ ,” he scoffed, his voice drawing closer. “Why don’t you bus to the grocery store?”

“Mm-mm, ‘s raining.”

“So… bus,” he reiterated, appearing in the threshold of the kitchen door, folding his arms as he leaned against it.

Keith grimaced. “I don’t want to wait for the bus in the rain.”

Shiro huffed, losing his patience. “So what  _ do  _ you want?”

“ _ Food _ .”

“Look, either you go out and get food, or you don’t go out and you don’t get food; it’s pretty simple.”

“I’m tired,” Keith whined, lifting his head, “we’ve been moving all day.”

Shiro sighed, his irritation slightly more tempered when he spoke next. “There  _ is  _ that little corner store just down the street—the one we stopped at on draft weekend, remember?”

Keith’s shoulders stiffened. He  _ did  _ remember—more the chatty cashier with the bright blue eyes, but he did nonetheless. “Yeah.”

“You can get some snacks to tie you over, then tomorrow we’ll go shopping.” He pushed off the doorframe, striding leisurely out of sight.

Keith peeled himself off the counter, following him into the living room.  _ Do you think it’ll be the same guy working cash _ , he wanted to ask, but it sounded a little too hopeful. “What if I run into  _ Mister Maple Leafs Diehard _ back there?”

Shiro flopped back on the couch, throwing his prosthetic arm over his eyes. “Then you’ll play nice—I know you get hangry, but try your best. Besides, what are the chances he’ll even be there again?”

Keith waffled on his feet, not sure if he wanted Shiro to be right or not. On the one hand, the possibility of making awkward conversation with a guy who, from Keith’s experience, had a tough time keeping his mouth shut, particularly about the team he was just drafted to.

On the other hand… cute guy.

He sighed, moving purposefully to his new, very much still packed, bedroom in search of a warm hoodie. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Pick up some Goldfish when you’re there,” Shiro shouted from the couch.

“Screw you!”

* * *

Keith still hadn’t decided if he wanted the guy to be working the cash or not by the time he’d yanked the front door open, practically leaping into the store to get out of the torrent coming down on the street. He paused in the threshold, taking a moment to catch his breath, and pulled back his hood, shaking the water off the front of his bangs where it hadn’t hung far enough to shield them.

“You!” Came his greeting in form of a shriek.

Keith froze, a hand still tangled in his hair.  _ Well, I guess there’s my answer _ . He picked up his gaze, cautiously eyeing the speaker behind the counter. Apart from the t-shirt he wore under an unzipped red sweater—and the gaping expression he wore too—he looked almost exactly the same as when Keith first saw him, a month-and-a-half ago.

“You—you’re—” he stammered, pointing insistently at him in the doorway, “you’re Keith  _ Kogane _ .”

“Uh…” Keith blinked, wondering how to answer that… question? Could it even count as one? “I am?”

There was a brief silence, a gap filled only by the sound of the rain pricking against the glass, then the guy dropped his accusatory finger. A grin spread across his face and he laughed. “Holy shit—you don’t remember. You came in the day before the draft, and—” he rubbed a hand against his forehead, still chuckling “—god, and you let me make an ass of myself, rambling on about you while you were standing  _ right there _ !”

Keith remembered after a moment to drop his own hand, stuffing them both in his pockets. “To be fair, that was mostly my brother’s doing.”

The boy leaned forward on both his elbows, scooting his stool closer beneath him. “Takashi, right?”

He dropped his eyes, discomfort starting to brew in his gut. “Yeah.” He  _ swore _ he’d never get used to having people he just met know such minute details of his life. He stepped towards the aisles, practically feeling piercing blue on the back of his skull.

“So you’re up here for good, now?”

He picked up a box of crackers, tucking it in the crook of his elbow. “Yep, we moved into our condo today.”

“We?”

“Shiro and me. He’s staying up here too.”

“It’s a big move,” the boy concurred, “I don’t know if I could do it on my own. Uh, we’re—we’re the same age.”

_ See, that’s awkward _ , Keith thought. He scooped a couple packages of Goldfish into his empty arm, head bowed as he pivoted on his heel, starting back towards the counter.

“Lance McClain,” the guy suddenly said. It made Keith freeze, feet stilling just as he reached the end of the shelves, looking up curiously.

“Sorry?”

“That’s my name, Lance McClain.” He smiled meekly, then continued. “I don’t usually introduce myself like a Dr. Seuss character, I promise.”

“Oh.” Keith the feeling returned to his legs once more, and he finished his trip, dumping his armful of snacks before retreating back down the aisle, ready to pillage the other shelves of their contents. “Lance,” he tested it out, satisfied with how it felt on his lips.

“It’s only fair. Since I already know, like, everything about you, the least you could do is know my name,” Lance joked.

Keith squat down, grabbing an assortment of cereal boxes from the bottom shelf. “So,  _ Lance McClain _ , are you the only one working this store?”

“Nope, you just got lucky  _ twice _ , my man.” The response—paired with the cocky tone—made Keith smirk. “It’s my parents’ shop, so usually my dad minds the till, but since it’s the summer and I need money, I’m basically manning the place open-to-close most days.”

_ Good to know _ , he didn’t say. He straightened, snatching an instant cake mix after a moment’s hesitation before carting his second load up. “It’s just you and them?”

Lance nodded, eyeing Keith’s haul momentarily before electing to push his crackers aside and make more room on the counter. “They don’t trust outside hires—they’re weird like that, I don’t know.” 

He leaned over to take Keith’s boxes as he dropped them down. Keith tried not to let his disappointment show when their hands failed to brush together, though he did momentarily berate himself his weakness, while Lance continued to talk. 

“‘Sides, we can handle the hours on our own right now.” Keith turned on his heel, in pursuit of the sugary snacks this time, and Lance sputtered a laugh from behind him. “Holy shit—how much are you  _ buying _ ?”

Keith shot him a very earnest look over his shoulder. “Our fridge is empty, I’ve been moving all day, and I’m fucking starving.” He turned his attention back to the shelves, filling his arms with cookies, fruit snacks, and whatever the hell else was packaged brightly enough to catch his eye and appetite.

“Aren’t you supposed to, like, be on a strict diet? Fuel your body well, and all that?”

Keith shrugged. “I’m supposed to eat a fuck-ton of calories a day, or something. I don’t know, I never really make my own meals. Besides development camp’s done, and training camp’s in two months; I’ve got time.”

Lance held his hands up in surrender. “Fair enough. Hey—” he slapped his palms against the counter, as though he’d just had a revelation “—so did you guys actually go sightseeing after all?”

After grabbing one last snack—a pack of chocolate pudding—he started back towards Lance, practically tiptoeing to maintain the delicate balance he’d created. “We saw the CN Tower.”

“‘Saw?’ You mean you didn’t go up it?”

Keith shot him a quizzical look over his jumbo marshmallows. “You can go up it?”

“W— _ yeah _ ? That’s the point!” He laughed, waving it off. “Alright, alright, add that to your ‘to do’ list, anything else?”

Keith finally reached the front, letting his baggage spill out over the lotto display. “I… we didn’t have much time to do anything.”

Lance’s eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “So you didn’t go  _ anywhere  _ else for sightseeing?”

He shook his head. “We weren’t really there to sightsee, so I guess we weren’t really thinking of it.”

He started checking out Keith’s haul, eyeing the prices before bagging them. Keith lamented that it meant Lance’s bright blue eyes were no longer in his sightline—downcast to do his actual job—but he watched with idle curiosity nonetheless. “Well, you’re here for good now; got any plans for where you want to visit?”

Keith pursed his lips, leaning his elbows onto the counter as he watched Lance’s deft and practiced movements. “Well, what else is there?”

Lance paused his work momentarily, quirking an eyebrow at him and barking out a laugh. “Serious? You just moved to the best city in the world; what  _ isn’t  _ there? You like architecture? We got Casa Loma. Art? AGO. Nerd shit? Ontario Science Centre  _ and  _ the ROM.  _ Shoes _ ? Bata Shoe Museum—yeah, that’s right,” he added when the last suggestion elicited a chuckle from Keith, pulling out a pad of paper and jotting some numbers down, “not only do we have a shoe museum, we have the biggest shoe museum on the planet!” He dropped his pen and went back to his bagging.

“Not to disappoint, but I’m not exactly the world’s biggest footwear fan,” Keith replied, trying for a joking tone and hoping he didn’t miss the mark.

“Yeah? Well, what are you into?”

_ Cute cashiers _ — “I…” he furrowed his brow. “Nothing in particular? I’m pretty much open to anything.”

He reached the final bagful of items, and Keith tried to hold down his pout. “Alright, well if you ever need any suggestions, you let me know. Toronto’s got so much to offer, and I know this city like the back of my hand.”

Keith nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

Lance glanced up, offering a warm smile, before returning his attention to his notepad. All notions of it disappeared off his face once he started scanning the numbers he’d scrawled across the page. “‘Kay, I just have to figure out your total, but I’m warning you it might take a while.” He tapped his pen against the page as he scrutinised it, scribbling something every few moments as he progressed. “I’ve got the worst math in the family, so naturally  _ I’m  _ the one working cash.”

Keith peered over at his work, spotting a mistake. “That’s twelve.” He tapped a finger to the paper.

Lance looked up at him, nonplussed, then suddenly snatched the pad, holding it to his chest. “I’ll get it right, just give me some time!” Once Keith held his hands up in surrender, he relaxed, setting the pad back down, albeit angled away from Keith. “I’m the one going to school in the fall, don’t make  _ me  _ look like the dumb one. How’re you paying, by the way?”

“Credit.”

Lance jotted down the total, pulling out his phone and navigating to the calculator app. “I hope you’re already getting paid, Keith,” he commented under his breath, tapping out an operation and coming out with the sum, then setting his phone aside to fuss with the debit machine. He turned it around once finished, offering it to Keith. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” he muttered quickly, pulling his card out of his back pocket.

As he swiped his card, Lance fussed with the bags, lining them up into two neat rows. “Are you going to need help with those?”

Keith shook his head, threading his arms through the handles of the plastic bags before taking a step back, his haul in tow. “I can make it; my condo’s across the street.”

Lance nodded, propping his elbow on the counter and resting his chin on a hand. “Good to know. Well, if you ever need anything—” he swept his other hand to gesture across to the store “—we’re right here.”

Keith nodded, turning towards the door and trying to hide a bashful smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“And Keith?” Lance called, stilling Keith’s (admittedly a bit hasty) retreat.

He looked over his shoulder, hoping he didn’t look too keen. “Mm?”

He grinned, pointing a finger at Keith in almost a mock-lecture. “CN Tower. All the way up. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” he promised with a chuckle.

“With the stairs.”

“There’s no elevator?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Of  _ course  _ there’s an elevator, but that’s for wimps. And people with disabilities—and I guess wimps  _ with  _ disabilities, but whatever.” He sat back in his stool, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve got to do it once in your life, hell grade schoolers do it all the time!”

Keith snorted. “Alright fine. Stairs all the way up.”

“Promise?”

And with a grin like that, how the hell could Keith say no? “Promise.”

He clapped his hands together excitedly. “Attaboy, now get the hell out of my store.”

Keith nodded, as he didn’t have the ability to wave goodbye, backing up into the door and manoeuvring his bags to facilitate his departure. “Nice meeting you…” he said, stepping back onto the street, rain pattering against the awning above his head, as he watched the door shut before him, the posters and advertisements plastered against the glass door obstructing his view of the cash once more. “… Lance,” he added at the end, the breath of a name only caught by his own ears.

Lance. A good name—a  _ really  _ good name. He hid a smirk in his shoulder as he turned back towards his building, feeling the rain soak his hair—his hood forgotten and hands too occupied to remedy that—but not really caring all that much.

Through the grace of a calmer sky and passage of time, by the time Keith had arrived back to their front door he was merely damp, no longer dripping. He kicked against the door a few times (because he’d already gone through enough hell getting into the building with his keycard hands-free—there’s only so far an ego can be bruised before you say ‘enough,’ and he reached that capacity rubbing his butt up against the sensor at the front door until it permitted his entry.)

Shiro mercifully opened the door, eyeing the drying-but-definitely-not-there-yet mop of hair that fell over Keith’s eyes, and Keith figured he’d’ve made a comment about it if his eyes hadn’t slipped down to his haul right then. They went wide, and he blinked mutely for a couple seconds before he laughed out, “did you buy the whole  _ store _ , Keith?”

He slipped past his brother as best he could, bags bumping against both Shiro and the doorframe. “You’re  _ welcome _ . Tonight, we snack like kings,” he declared over his shoulder, cutting straight towards the kitchen.

“Keeping you on diet’s going to be hell for me this year, isn’t it? At least before, you didn’t have the money to buy all this junk food.”

Keith smirked, setting his armfuls down on the bare counter with a relieved grunt, carefully extracting his arms from the plastic handles. “You can handle it,  _ Captain _ Shirogane,” he teased, rummaging through the bags for the crackers he’d bought for his brother, who’d tailed him into the room and was now leaning back against their mini kitchen table. “Show me some of that military discipline they taught you in boot camp.” He found the Goldfish, lobbing the bag in Shiro’s direction.

He deftly caught it, wasting no time ripping it open and digging in. “You wouldn’t last the first day in boot camp, Keith—god knows how you’ve stayed in hockey so long.”

Keith shrugged, breaking off a pudding cup and peeling back the lid. “‘M too good to be cut,” he answered simply, lifting it to his lips and slurping loudly. Shiro pulled a face at the display, but elected to stay mum. “Mm,” Keith hummed to draw Shiro’s attention while he swallowed, then followed up. “So it was the same cashier as before.”

Shiro’s eyes lit up in amusement. “Did you bite his head off?”

Keith furrowed his brow. “Why would—of course not!”

His expression turned curious. “Really? I thought he would’ve recognised you.”

“Well no, he  _ did _ ,” he rolled his eyes, wanting to insist that he didn’t snap at  _ every  _ stranger who recognised him in public, but unable to come up with an example from recent history, “he just wasn’t an asshole about it. He was…” he shrugged, “friendly. His name’s Lance.”

“Wow, you listened long enough to hear his  _ name _ ? Keith, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you made a friend.”

He scoffed, setting down his pudding and turning to start putting snacks away (as well as hide the smile that was threatening to crack through.) “ _Hardly_ , we—” he pursed his lips thoughtfully, pulling open a pantry drawer and tossing some boxes in. “Actually, maybe? He was telling me about all these places we ‘ _have_ ’ to go visit in the city.”

Shiro gave an interested hum. “Like where?”

Keith shut the drawer once it had filled, tugging open the one below it with his toe. “He said to go up the CN Tower, and… I mean, he said a  _ lot  _ of things. I don’t remember half the names he told me—he talks a  _ lot _ , Shiro. But he did say that if I wanted to go anywhere, to let him know, ‘cause he knows the city really well.”

He heard, rather than saw, Shiro’s grin. “Keith, you  _ totally  _ just made a friend.”

His face scrunched up in disbelief. “What? No way.”

“He’s asking you to hang out—did you not pick up on that?” He laughed. “No  _ wonder  _ you’ve never had a girlfriend, Keith.”

Keith kicked the drawer shut, biting his tongue before a sarcastic ‘ _ yeah,  _ that’s  _ the reason, Shiro _ ’ could slip out. He looked back to Shiro, trepidation marking his tone. “I… he was just being nice, I’m sure. I was a customer—and hell, a player for his favourite hockey team—of  _ course  _ he’s going to say shit like that. Doesn’t mean he’s interested,” he insisted, adding, “in being friends,” after a brief moment.

Shiro rolled his eyes. “So? It means you guys at least have something in common: you both like hockey. You’re going to be in this city for a while, bud; it wouldn’t hurt to make some friends. And it sounds like the two of you get along alright.”

He leaned back against the counter. “I guess… it wouldn’t hurt,” he acquiesced, mostly for Shiro’s benefit.

Shiro grinned proudly. “That’s the spirit—and hey, why don’t you guys do it tomorrow, since you’re free?”

“What if he’s busy?”

“Ask him. Did you get his number?” Keith shook his head. “Then pop by the store when you’re ready to go, and see if he’s there.”

“And if he’s not?”

“You’ve always had good luck, Keith; something tells me you’ll get the timing right again.” He pushed off the table, tossing his now-empty bag of crackers onto it and moving towards him. “Alright, what else did you buy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like there was a number of places this story originated from. I mentioned the first in the starting AN but the next was the Canadian TV show “Kim’s Convenience”--which I highly recommend bc it’s pretty cute and actually fairly socially progressive, and has a racially diverse cast (the main cast is a Korean immigrant family all played by Korean-Canadians and the story was developed by a Korean-born Canadian.) Anyway the story rly spoke to me as per the immigrant family experience and I love Toronto so here we are. The McClains’ store’s layout is heavily based off the sets on the show so if ur looking to visualise it u can go to that lol.
> 
> I also wrote this bc I’m still lowkey still sad about Phil Kessel being traded to the Penguins. Phil if ur reading this ily and I’m so glad ur a Stanley Cup champ and I know u being traded was for the best bc Toronto was a fiasco (the whole hot dog thing) but I miss u bby.
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** Keith furrowed his brow, starting cautiously towards the counter, his nerves mounting as Lance’s seemed to dissipate. “I’m not here for that. I’m—I was…” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”
> 
> He blinked, expression dropping to confusion. “Go?”
> 
> “Sightseeing,” he tried to explain, his confidence losing power with every passing second. “I-if you’re busy, we don’t have to go—”
> 
> “No,” he interrupted, throwing out a hand out to catch Keith’s eye, “no, it’s—it’s all good, lemme just—” he stood abruptly, his stool squeaking on the floor beneath him, putting on a meek smile. “I’ll just go let my mom know I’m leaving.”
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)


	2. Summertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance spends the summer showing Keith around town, and the two get to know each other a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah I might actually post this on time???? My ADHD ass never dreamt it possible. Shit’s litty. It's a pretty short chapter granted but I'm still taking the fucken win
> 
> I have no creativity so this chapter’s title is brought to you by My Chemical Romance. Listen tho okay Danger Days is such a good album don’t come 4 me, and Summertime itself is so sof and nice so it works B)
> 
> Thanks so much for the positive response so far! If you’ve left a comment please know that I will be responding to it. In fact, I had planned on getting to that before I posted the second chapter but unfortunately real life got in the way :C I wish I could give every one of u a hug and a box lunch personally to thank you, but alas I am from the internet so all I can do is use my words and hope that’s enough. 
> 
> I’ll keep it real w u chief I don’t have the mental faculties at the moment to remember whether or not I used any nonstandard slang/terminology in this chapter (I’m pretty sure I didn’t but I’m not sure,) so if I did forget it please send me a comment and I’ll put a definition up in the ANs asap as p. Thanx children
> 
> Also GOOD LUCK!!! to everyone who like me is starting school again, whether it be high school or uni or college or clown academy I wish you good luck and mental wellness in ur studies <3 To anyone who’s starting their first year of college/uni in particular, a little advice from my experience: dw if ur grades drop from hs because post-secondary is a whole other ballgame, a fail is not the end of the world, make sure u talk (with ur voice) to at least one other person a day even if it’s just a phone call, study groups are a fantastic way to make friends in ur classes while also being productive, and it’s totally normal to feel lonely/isolated in ur first year!!! Make sure u open up and reach out if you’re starting to feel like ur all by urself in all of this because I guarantee you ur not <333
> 
> Also go to ur fucking lectures. Idc if it’s an 8am and u don’t wanna get out of bed. Roll the fuck outta there and go in ur PJs if that’s what it takes. You will not be the first uni student to show up with bedhead and pyjama pants, no one really cares jUST GO AND SOAK UP AS MUCH KNOWLEDGE AS U CAN, UR PAYING FOR THIS BABEY GIVE URSELF THE BEST CHANCE TO SUCCEED!!!!!!
> 
> As always when I include bilingual Lance in my fics, I recognise my Spanish might not be perfect, so I apologise if there are mistakes! I’m jus a big ol’ projector tho so my Lances always have to be 1) ADHD and 2) bilingual. Also bi. I guess that’s three. Ehh whatever
> 
> K now enjoy some fluff and lots of pining Keith, we settin up CHARACTERS today bitch!!!

Keith really wished there was a stoplight on the intersection between the corner store and his condo, feeling like he could’ve used the time of a red light to build up just a bit more nerve for this. Diving in front of rubber pucks being shot at 80 miles an hour? Whatever. Getting crushed into the glass by defencemen big enough to eat him for breakfast? No biggie.

But building up the nerve to talk to Lance again—to hang out with a guy he barely knew and also kind of found incredibly attractive? He honestly preferred getting charged into the boards. Head first. His pace compensated for his nerves, the early-afternoon foot traffic slipping past him while he dragged his feet and the time out. Inevitably, though, he arrived once more at the convenience store.

He planted his feet firmly, staring down his reflection in the barred glass. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, took a steeling breath, then yanked it open. Lance was at his usual spot, leaned at a precarious angle onto his elbows on the counter, perusing his phone.

He muttered a distracted, “Hi there,” glancing momentarily up, before doing a double-take, eyes widening as he sat up, his phone clattering onto the counter. “Oh hey! You’re back already?” He relaxed a tad, his signature smile reappearing. “We only restock once a week—you keep this up and all we’ll have left to sell is canned beans.”

Keith furrowed his brow, starting cautiously towards the counter, his nerves mounting as Lance’s seemed to dissipate. “I’m not here for that. I’m—I was…” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

He blinked, expression dropping to confusion. “Go?”

“Sightseeing,” he tried to explain, the (already diminished) confidence in his voice losing power with every passing second. “I-if you’re busy, we don’t have to go—”

“No,” he interrupted, throwing out a hand out to catch Keith’s eye, “no, it’s—it’s all good, lemme just—” he stood abruptly, his stool squeaking on the floor beneath him, putting on a meek smile. “I’ll just go let my mom know I’m leaving.”

Before Keith could answer, he scrambled towards the back room, clamping his hands on the doorway and kicking up a leg as he leaned in, hollering a “ _ Ma _ !” so loud, Keith could’ve sworn he saw the cans on the shelf beside him rattle. Lance stood frozen, listening for a reply Keith didn’t hear, though Lance obviously had, as evidenced by the reply he shouted back:

“I’ve got to go!”

“Lance,” Keith started, “you don’t—”

Lance silenced his protests with an emphatic wave of his hand. “ _ Te lo dije ayer _ — _ yeah _ , I did! Ugh,  _ mami, te lo juro _ —okay! I’m leaving now!” He spun on his heel, pointedly ignoring the protests that were growing in volume from behind him, flashing Keith yet another grin as he strode purposefully towards him. “Alright! So where are we heading?”

Keith gave an uncertain frown. “Are you sure you can come? That sounded a little…” he trailed off, grasping for the right descriptor and inevitably coming up short.

Lance shrugged, swiping his phone off the front counter. “Nah, that’s just my mom for you—she’ll be down from the apartment in five minutes.” He thwacked Keith on the shoulder, then led the way to the door. “We’ll take the TTC—you ever been on a subway?”

He gave one last uncertain glance to the back room, then turned to follow. “Not yet.”

He pushed through the door, holding it for Keith. “Then stick close; the crowds can get pretty busy ‘round this time of day, and we don’t need you getting lost.”

* * *

When Lance had initially told him cellphones got no reception underground, Keith had admittedly panicked a tad. Not that he was anything close to addicted to his phone (the sad state of his social media accounts were testament to that,) but the prospect of being entrapped in close quarters with a still fairly new acquaintance with no phone as a crutch terrified him at first. Luckily enough, Lance clearly had the gift of the gab, filling the entire subway ride with chatter.

He learned a lot about Lance in that trip. He was the youngest child in a big family (out of whom he ‘thankfully’ only lived with his parents, in the apartment above their downtown store,) he was an undeclared major, ready to start his freshman year in the fall at the University of Toronto, and he’d only ever broken one bone in his body (his arm, falling out of a tree in what he called a ‘long story’ (which didn’t end up being that long seeing as though Lance decided to tell him immediately after: he was attacked by what he described as an “incredibly jacked, possibly steroid-infused” squirrel. To himself, Keith wondered if “attacked” should be placed under quotations too.)

Keith listened intently the whole time, trying to hold down what felt like a veritably  _ dopey _ grin as Lance raved and gesticulated accordingly. He was taken aback by how refreshing he found talking about someone else’s life to be—how nice it was for the focus to be off of him for a change.

After disembarking from the subway, as they meandered the streets of Toronto, Lance offered fun facts about the things that they passed—he mentioned a restaurant he loved a little ways’ down that served fantastic milkshakes, the Hockey Hall of Fame—which was ironically in the opposite direction of where they were headed right now—and things that were down streets that Keith knew for a fact he’d never remember the names of, let alone ever be able to find without a local to steer him, but he nodded along nonetheless. 

Lance was wrapping up some story about a local street performer who’d gained national attention for helping stop a robbery by the time they’d reached the base of the most famous tower looming over the city.

“… anyway, he’s also a pretty cool guy—I mean, I only met him once, but once you look past the Spiderman costume, he’s friendly and whatnot.”

Keith craned his neck up, practically needing to look totally vertical to find where the tower met the sky. “So… all the way up?”

Lance blew a heavy sigh. “Yeah… to be honest, I kind of regret saying that.”

A wry smirk tugged at his lips. “What was that you said about wimps?”

“You calling me a wimp?” He scoffed, starting towards the front entrance. “I’ll  _ race  _ you to the top, how’s that for a wimp?” And maybe it was predictable, what with Keith being a hockey player, but he fell for the taunt instantly. After all, there was nothing he loved more than a challenge.

* * *

“For the record,” Lance mumbled, shoulder rubbing against Keith’s as he shifted for the umpteenth time in their cramped elevator, “I totally  _ would’ve  _ beat you if they let us take the stairs.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “How did  _ you  _ not know the stairs were going to be closed?”

“How was I supposed to? The last time I was here, I was barely old enough to walk myself! What, are you  _ complaining _ ?”

“Definitely not.” Keith momentarily held his hands up in surrender, then folded them back against his chest, looking out the window he pressed up against on his other side at the city they currently rocketed up and away from. “At least this way, we’ll save some time.”

Lance hummed thoughtfully. “We can hit up someplace else, if you’re up for it after. You recognise anything?”

Keith scanned the tops of the buildings, pursing his lips as he searched. “Not really. Everything kind of looks the same to me.” The city seemed to stretch infinitely across as they climbed, buildings receding into the grid of streets and clearing the way for more buildings to pop up. “Toronto is  _ huge _ ,” he breathed.

“I’m guessing you didn’t grow up in a big city, then?”

Keith wondered if Lance already knew the answer, but he replied nonetheless. “No, I was in the suburbs most of my life—all of what I can remember, anyway.”

“It can be overwhelming,” Lance assured, “‘s pretty easy to get lost in such a big place. But for me, I think that’s what I like about it most.” Keith turned back, shooting him a questioning look. Lance didn’t meet his gaze, eyes fixed to the scene rushing past their window, smiling gently. “It’s like… it puts things in perspective,” he decided. “You realise that everything you’re worried about is so small, that it can’t chase you wherever you go. Like  you can get lost, and still be at home.”

Keith nodded. “I can understand the appeal.”

Lance turned to him then, giving him an amused look. “What, d’you get tired of the fame and the girls throwing themselves at you?”

Keith’s expression turned sour, and he turned forward. “Honestly? Yeah.” Just then, the elevator halted, the doors sliding open to let the tourists spill out. Keith held back, waiting for everyone in front of them to clear out and let him move.

After a long moment, Lance said, “You’re not like most hockey players, are you, Keith?” Keith glanced at him, quirking an eyebrow. Lance shuffled forward to move with the crowd, and Keith followed suit. “I mean, most hockey players—at least the ones  _ I  _ went to school with—most of them would kill to be half as famous as you,” he spoke over his shoulder, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Keith’s gaze faltered to his shoes. “I don’t like the attention—I’d do better without it, if I’m being honest.”

“So why do you do it, then? Hockey, I mean.”

He caught up to Lance, and they followed the rest of the crowd in step. “Well… because I like it? And I’m good at it, I guess.”

“You  _ guess _ ?” Lance scoffed, cutting a straight line towards the panoramic windows. “Can I just say: you’re nothing like I thought you would be.” He gripped on the railing and leaned forward, excitedly scanning the shoreline of Lake Ontario like it was his first time seeing it.

Keith joined him, leaning his elbows onto the railing, a temporary vertigo keeping him from tilting forward the way Lance so readily did. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Lance shook his head. “‘S not bad, just different. Actually, it’s probably better in some ways: you don’t exactly have a reputation for being approachable, y’know.”

Unfortunately, he did know. “Yeah well neither would  _ you _ , if you had people sticking cameras in your face, grilling you about every play when you’ve just come off the ice.”

“Y’see that’s where you’re wrong; I’m a natural delight, and I  _ love  _ attention.” The corner of Keith’s mouth ticked upwards, and he blew an amused scoff, flicking his eyes over to watch Lance idly scan the bustling city below them. “You’re just super intense and focused when you’re playing hockey, which is probably why you’re so good at it—and  _ definitely  _ why I could never be a hockey player.” He shrugged. “That’s why it’s kind of unexpected for you to be all modest and…” he smiled, almost apologetically, “well I don’t want to say  _ awkward _ , but—let’s call it ‘endearingly non-threatening,’ how ‘bout that?”

Keith’s slid his gaze forward, watching his own hands knead idly together. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that. It’s not the reputation you want to have in my line of work.”

Lance snorted. “My lips are sealed—we don’t need you getting steamrolled by the other players.  _ Ooh _ !” He tipped further over the railing, pointing a finger somewhere off towards Keith’s side of the glass. “You see that park? One time I got run over by an old lady on a Vespa there! ‘Kay, so it all started when my friend Pidge dared me to play a game of Chicken with her in the bike lane—”

* * *

“Knock knock,” Lance’s voice swiftly followed the creak of Keith’s front door opening. When he opened his eyes, Lance was standing over him, a frown gracing his (currently upside-down, from Keith’s vantage point on the floor) face. “Jesus, you two are in a state.”

“A/C’s still busted,” Keith explained, sprawled in the front threshold on his back and standing—er, well  _ lying _ —between Lance and the rest of the apartment.

“I can tell,” Lance replied, tone turning almost patronising. He glanced over towards the living room couch, where Shiro currently lounged. “Are you sure you’re both from Arizona? You’re acting like this is your first heat wave.”

Keith threw an arm over his forehead. “ _ I _ just came home from training;  _ Shiro _ ’s just a baby.”

“I have a  _ metal arm _ , Keith,” Shiro retaliated.

“You took it off this morning, that doesn’t even work as an excuse—”

“Enough,” Lance cut in. He carefully stepped over Keith’s outstretched arm, heading to the dining table on the other side. As he left Keith’s field of vision, the sound of cardboard being cracked open filled the stale air. “I brought you guys the popsicles you asked for, but you’re not getting any if you don’t play nice with each other,” he mock-instructed.

“You’re an angel, Lance—how are you even friends with  _ Keith _ ?”

“Ass.”

“Be nice,” Lance reiterated. “Alright, we’ve got blue, red, white, orange, and purple—who’s having what?”

“Purple,” Shiro announced, raising his remaining arm in the air.

“You going to catch?” Shiro nodded, so Lance lobbed one his way. He fumbled with it, but ultimately managed to keep it from falling to the floor. “Keith, colour?”

“Red.”

“ _ Yech _ , you heathen.” Lance tossed one over for him nonetheless. He caught it deftly, sitting up with a groan—and regretting the ab work he’d done all the while—ripping off the wrapper and tossing it aside. Lance plucked one of his own from the box, then carried both with him as he stepped over Keith’s legs, traversing towards the kitchen and out of Keith’s line of sight. “How long ‘til it’s fixed?” He called over the sound of the fridge opening and shutting.

“Landlord says three days,” Shiro replied.

“As in,” Keith continued, Lance returning from the kitchen and stepping over him one last time, making it back to the dining table and hopping up on it, lips already staining blue from his popsicle, “the exact day this heat wave’s supposed to be over,” he griped. Lance laughed, and it served to only deepen Keith’s pout.

“You two going anywhere today?” Shiro asked.

Lance shook his head. “I’ve got to get ready for school—frosh week starts tomorrow.” Keith dropped his eyes to his lap, concealing a frown. The two of them had seen each other almost every day this summer—probably the best summer of Keith’s life, if he was being frank—and it was disappointing for him to know that it was going to end so soon. “Plus, judging by Keith’s whining, I don’t think we’d even make it down the stairs.”

“Fuck you, I trained my ass off today.”

“You wouldn’t be so sore now if you hadn’t gone soft on your training in the summer,” Shiro singsonged.

Keith scoffed but stopped short of defending himself, knowing the reason he’d neglected his training was so that he could have more time with Lance in the summer (and acknowledging that it was worth paying the price of playing keep-up now.) “Whatever. It won’t even make a difference by the time training camp comes around.”

Keith knew Shiro well enough that he could predict Shiro’s response: that it still matters now because it raises the risk of injury and isn’t a responsible way of treating yourself. He let it drop with a sigh, though—probably because he knew Keith well enough to realise he wouldn’t be heard.

In his stead, Lance spoke up. “So when’s training camp?” He asked Keith, idly kicking his legs under him.

Keith figured Lance already knew the answer—he almost always did when it came to the questions he’d ask, supplying the answer himself when Keith had trouble remembering—but he appreciated it all the same. It let Keith feel like he was just a normal guy to Lance, like the two of them might actually belong to the same world.

“End of September.”

“‘N how are we feelin’ about that? Excited?  _ Nervous _ ?” He tacked on the last word with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Keith shrugged. “Hockey’s hockey. Same as it’s always been,” he downplayed, trying to quash the nerves bubbling below the surface.

Lance blew a raspberry. “ _ Bo _ -ring! Y’ever going to let yourself express a full emotion, Keith? This isn’t an interview, y’know? There’s no wrong answer.”

“Except the answer I gave, right?”

“Yeah, because it’s boring,” he reiterated, turning then to Shiro to ask, “has he always been like this?”

“Emotionally constipated, you mean?” Keith rolled his eyes, and Lance nodded. “Not always—actually, when he was a kid he used to steal my mom’s jewellery and heels and strut around the house—”

“ _ Shiro _ ,” Keith hissed, but the damage was already done.

Lance gasped, turning to pin Keith with wide eyes, his free hand going to his heart. “Oh my god, shantay you  _ slay _ !”

Keith groaned, his scowl deepening to offset the growing burn on his cheeks. “For the record, fuck both of you—and I was  _ five _ !” 

“Hey, no shade here!” Lance’s eyes crinkled with the laugh he tried to stifle. “We all need to feel fabulous sometimes.” Then, as though he hadn’t even  _ heard _ his own words, he turned to Shiro and asked, “Any chance you’ve still got pictures—”

He cut himself short when Keith’s—now-finished—popsicle stick hit him on the temple. He slapped a hand to the side of his face, glanced down at the projectile now clattering against the floor, then looked to Keith, mouth agape.

“Wh— _ Ew _ ? Keith, that’s so dis— _ that was in your mouth _ !”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: Shiro and Keith were actually just both being babies. Also this summer was annoying as ass w the weather I’m so glad it’s finally September and I won’t have to deal with 30 degree days anymore bye affff
> 
> See I fixed the discrepancy I don’t do my city dirty. Fun fact all but one place mentioned in this chapter actually refers to a real place, I didn’t really bother with making sure the park I had in mind was visible from the observation deck of the CN Tower so that’s the only place that isn’t. Lemme tell u, I had a lot of fun projecting onto Lance this fic, he acts like such a Toronto Mans in canon u have to give this to me.
> 
> (btw Fran’s??? Some p fucking good milkshakes. Not the best I’ve ever had but nothing to sneeze at imo)
> 
> I’ve simplified a couple things when it comes to the sports side of this btw, just to be less of a headache for me and for the non-hockey people who are reading this. So like if u notice that shit… ig that’s why I’m doing it lol idk what else to say??? For someone who writes as much as I do I really don’t do well w using my words do I
> 
> Sidenote Lance DEFINITELY over-uses Toronto slang in this universe. I don’t write it a lot in the fic because then it’d be practically indecipherable for most people but like my fic my story I’m making it fucking canon baby and there’s NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!!
> 
> One last thing: I try to make it a policy not to do negative talk in my notes, so like…. Not gonna do that…. But that being said expect the story to start moving a bit more in the next few chapters. That’s about all I can say before it gets to negative self-talk so *jazz hands*
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  
> 
> **Next chapter preview:**
> 
>  
> 
> His music softened, permitting a ping! to sound in his ears. It pulled Keith out of his reverie, and he turned up the phone in his outstretched hand to check the notification.
> 
>  
> 
> **[New Text: Lance]**
> 
>  
> 
> His shoulders drooped a tad, a tension he hadn’t even know he was carrying easing there.
> 
> (it's season opener time, baby!!!) (that's not in the chapter, that's just a description of the next chapter. Which is called "Season Opener." K c u next week stay hydrated, love urself, listen to ur fave album, astral project in a Walmart parking lot, learn karate from a salamander, remember the alamo, I'm just gonna keep going u don't have to stick around for this any longer)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first game of the season, and Keith's nerves just might be getting the better of him.
> 
> That is, until he gets a pre-game text from a certain someone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woawoawoahhh HELLO AGAIN MY LOVELY READERS!!! It's still friday somewhere, just not here. I'm so bad at uploading on my own deadlines ghkfgkk
> 
> Homies and gentlehomies, imma keep it real w u……… school and work are kickin my ass. I rly wanna keep myself on a strict upload schedule but like if ur following me on tumblr ull see that for all 3 chapters I’ve been Struggling to keep on time. With that said if a chap comes out late I’m supes sorey in advance, no one wants this thing out there and off my plate more than me let me tell u th@
> 
> If u follow my tumblr you’ll also see that I’m a mess. But like….. y’all already knew that from the ANs didn’t cha
> 
> Guess what? We actually have hockey terms in this chapter! Before u look at all of this and go “holy shit wHET” because there’s a lot, note that basically none of these are terms that if you don’t know the exact definition, you’ll be totally lost. Honestly if I were u, I’d just read the story and if I hit a word I really needed to know, I’d ctrl+f it to find the def up here.
> 
> Hockey Night in Canada: the CBC broadcast of Canadian teams playing on Saturday night  
> Starting line: the first lineup of players out to play. These are typically the best players the team has at the time (there are six players out at a time, usually 3 forwards, 2 defencemen, 1 goalie.)  
> Assist: points given to the players who pass to the player who scores the goal. Points are used to rank players’ stats in the team and the league, and assists--both primary and secondary--both count for the same amount of points that goals do (1.) Essentially, how you get an assist is if the puck hits your blade either the blade before or two blades before it hits the blade of the goalscorer (if they’re on your team, that is,) you get an assist.  
> Minors: the minor leagues, (and more specifically for the purposes of this fanfic, the AHL.) The AHL is a development league for the NHL, so if you get a contract with, say, the Toronto Maple Leafs, and the team wants you to develop your skill, you get sent to the Toronto Marlies until they feel you’re ready to play for the NHL team.  
> Centre lane: not a specific location on the ice, per se, just a general referential to the space in between both goalies. (I also initially typed this as “centre lance” before I realised my error. I spend /way/ too much time writing voltron fanfic.)  
> Onside: When the puck enters the offensive zone either a) before any offensive player does, or b) on the blade of the leading offensive player, and before any other offensive player completely crosses over the blue line  
> Top shelf: a shot that lifts the puck over the goalie’s shoulder  
> Bar down: A goal that hits off the crossbar of the net  
> Slap pass: Basically a slapshot--where you lift your stick off the ice and behind you to hit the puck with more force--but to pass it instead of shoot it.  
> Hash marks: The two circles on either side of the net and in front of it  
> Penalty kill: the style of game played by a team who is short players due to a penalty incurred by one of them  
> Five hole: the space between the goalie’s legs  
> Shorty: short-handed goal. When you score a goal on your team’s penalty kill.
> 
> Oh and this 2 I mentioned this in a comment reply but Keith’s basically based off of Auston Matthews when it comes to his hockey in this fic. And like, ‘m just gonna say if u think that what happens in this first chap is my favouritism materialising in an unrealistic first game for Keith… I’m just gonna say in Matthews’s first pro game he did Keith one better. That’s about as far as I can go without spoiling the chapter?? ig???? Anyhow don’t come 4 me and be like oh that’s unrealistic bc on the one hand YEA but on the other it’s more believable than what actually happened soooo *dabs*
> 
> @ Fellow emetophobes there’s a vomit mention in the chapter--no description of it but it’s when Lance says “I can’t believe you’re the same guy…” to Keith’s “and here I thought I was special.”
> 
> ISTG MY ANS ARE LONGER THAN MY ACTUAL CHAPTERS I'M SO SORRY I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BE CONCISE ANYWEY HOPE U ENJOY

It’s damn near impossible to drive a thought out when it’s been squatting at the front of your mind for weeks—and Keith  _ knew  _ that, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

His headphones were over his ears, music playing loud enough that the rest of the locker room could probably hear it (which was fine by him; he had a towel draped over his head to shield him from concerned and irritated glances alike.) He was resting his elbows on his knees, eyes focused somewhere on the floor between his skates, bouncing a leg to both calm and channel his nerves.

_ Season opener _ , whispered nothing in particular,  _ season opener, season opener _ —He reached for his phone and turned the volume up.

Season openers were big in Toronto—like, royal wedding big. Like, if there was a dog who saved a drowning baby from a river, and that baby saved another, smaller baby from the same river? That story would be on page two of the newspaper, to make room for season opener predictions for the Leafs. And the poster-boy for this rejuvenated and soon-to-be redeemed hockey team? The one whose face had been plastered on the front of every newspaper, billboard, and magazine in the city?

_ At seven PM on CBC Sports, watch Keith Kogane fall short of everyone’s expectations, leading the charge of an underwhelming Toronto Maple Leafs team in an exciting Original Six matchup, on Hockey Night in Canada. _

This fucking city and their  _ fucking  _ hockey, it honestly made Keith feel sick to his stomach—though, he reasoned, that might just be the anxiety.

His music softened, permitting a  _ ping! _ to sound in his ears. It pulled Keith out of his reverie, and he turned up the phone in his outstretched hand to check the notification.

**[New Text: Lance]**

His shoulders drooped a tad, a tension he hadn’t even know he was carrying easing there. He hadn’t seen Lance face-to-face in about a week, Keith’s training clashing with Lance’s work and school schedules, making it damn near impossible to find time where they were both free, let alone had enough energy to hang out. It really shouldn’t have surprised Keith that Lance was thinking about him—and really it didn’t; Keith knew better than anyone how much Lance loved his team—but it made his heart flutter in a similar but totally opposite way that it had been for however long Keith could even remember—an hour? A week? Who could tell.

He swiped it open.

**[Lance:** GOOD LUCK YA NASTY!!! Ik ur too cool to feel emotions or whatever but jst in case that’s all just a schtick and u are even just a lil bit nervous u! Got! This! Go kick some ass (but not literally don’t get a penalty in ur first game) **]**

Keith blew a soft chuckle through his nose. Though he’d only known Lance for a few months, it’d grown difficult to imagine what life was like without his constant rambling texts—why’d Keith even have a phone before he knew Lance? What did he even  _ do  _ with it?

**[Keith:** Thanks. And no promises **]**

He’d begun tapping out another message when he felt a prod against his knee. He started (a bit too tense for his own pride,) then pulled back his towel, searching for the source. He locked eyes with his linemate, Mike, sitting next to him and offering a kind smile.

At the ripe old age of thirty-five, Michael D’Souza was a veritable veteran in the league, and even though he’d played just as many games in a Leafs jersey as Keith had, he had a genuine and fatherly demeanour that made Keith—and the other young players—feel welcome on this team. He figured that, along with his experience, was why their coach had put them together on the same line in training. And as much as Keith felt he didn’t need a handler, he was thankful for Mike’s calming presence both on and off the ice.

He pointed to his own ears, and Keith got the hint, tugging his headphones down to his neck and pulling the cord out of the headphone jack. “Stillsy’s comin’ down the hall,” he explained, wearing an almost-furtive smile. “And you know how he feels about phones.”

Keith glanced towards the hall, faintly catching the telltale pound of their coach’s feet as he approached. “You’re a lifesaver, Mike,” he said, stuffing the headphones and the cellphone into his bag.

“My job’s too protect you young kids—whether it’s from d-men or our own coach.”

The thundering steps grew louder, then the ajar door was swung wide open to reveal Frank Stills: coach extraordinaire, and often an  _ extraordinary _ pain in Keith’s ass—though in all fairness to coach Stills, Keith was quite the pain to him as well. It came with the territory of being one of the best at what you do, and Keith’s annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that if anyone on this team had more pressure to perform than him, it was Stillsy.

The man in question stopped once fully through the door, taking a moment for a quick, cursory glance around the locker room. He stood at his full six feet, broad shoulders pulled back as he sized his team up, his stony expression revealing nothing about the conclusion he’d drawn of them. “Okay boys,” he called, Keith having to catch himself from starting yet again—he  _ still  _ wasn’t used to Stillsy’s curt style of addressal, accented by his strong Canadian raising, “listen up: this is a new season, and we’re a new team. We’ve got new players, new strategies, and new competition, and I don’t want us getting stuck in the mindset of last season—that’s behind us. Gone. Throw it out. Start fresh.”

He dove into further detail about the style of play he wanted to see. Keith did his best to listen (and added his own modifications as they went along—Stillsy was probably the best coach he’d had so far, but only Keith knew how Keith Kogane should play, and the goals he’d score would prove that.) He ended the briefing with a “got it?” that he didn’t wait for anyone to answer before he moved onto calling the starters.

“Backin’ us up in net, Strazynsky—” there was a healthy applause that followed the announcement of the starting goalie, as well as one for the defensive pair “—on D we’ve got Martin and Smith, and up front: D’Souza, Jackson and Kogane.”

Keith froze, the tension snapping his shoulders right back up again. There was no way he  _ actually  _ meant—he glanced over to Mike again, missing Stillsy’s closing remark as the doubts rung through his ears once more.

Mike grinned at him—and that was  _ definitely  _ not the reaction he was expecting. Were they seriously putting him on the starting line? In his first NHL game? In his first pro game  _ ever _ ? “Welcome to the league, kid. Get your shit on.” He stood and nodded to Keith’s jersey, hung up behind his head, then turned to busy himself with getting on his own pads.

Keith knew he should probably stand up too, but he worried he might lose his lunch if he tried.

Skates clomped closer on his other side, and his light was suddenly obscured by a dressed teammate, hands on his hips as he regarded Keith. “You look about ready to shit the bed, Kogane,” came an all-too-familiar taunt.

He quickly schooled his expression, anxiety nearly forgotten as his mind latched onto the distraction. “You fucking wish, Jackson,” he lobbed right back, deciding he was in fact strong enough to stand. He stepped up blade-to-blade with his teammate and stuck up his chin to compensate for the height advantage the other had. “Remember that assists still count for points— _ if _ you’re thinking of shooting the puck yourself, that is.”

Jackson laughed, his cocky smile growing, and he ran a hand through his hair, sweaty blonde locks sticking up at all angles. “I might, if you could stop playing keep-away with me and Mikey. Hey Mikey!” He called over Keith’s shoulder. “Your daughter got any books on learning to share?”

Keith scoffed, turning on his heel and starting to pull his padding on—Jackson might be a nuisance at times, and honestly a bit of a numbskull, but he’d grown on Keith, who had no qualms about returning the jabs he sent his way. It probably helped his case that he was totally Keith’s type—hot, dumb, cocky, and tragically heterosexual—but that was beside the point right now.

“You learn how to shoot, and I’ll learn how to share, how about that?”

“I’ve been in this league longer than your skinny ass, Kogane. Show a little respect to your elders.”

_ Yeah, by a year _ , Keith scoffed. “And you were in the minors longer than me too, right?” He was treated to a hard shove in the back, and he laughed, figuring that signalled his victory.

“Hey, tweedle-dumbasses,” coach Stills barked, “enough chit-chat, let’s fucking go!”

* * *

 

Wasn’t anyone going to cover him?

The moment he saw his teammate’s interception, Keith sprung off his skates, rushing out of the defensive zone to catch up to the other blue jersey. Keith’s teammate handled the puck at full-speed as the opposing defenceman loomed ahead of him, who skated backwards and spread himself out to slow the play and take away his lane at the net. But no one was on Keith—where were they? Had they all forgotten how to skate?

Keith dragged his back skate as they crossed the offensive blue line, slowing himself to make sure his teammate crossed first, then pushing out towards the centre lane once the play was onside. The defenceman was still spread-eagle, the goalie crouching menacingly to protect his net from both Leafs players. And Keith saw his goal—top shelf, over the far shoulder, bar down. All he needed was the puck. His teammate drew his stick back, taking the shot— _ faking _ the shot, a hard slap-pass sending the puck rocketing directly onto Keith’s tape and off just as soon, redirected up and across the empty ice.

Top shelf, over the far shoulder, bar  _ fucking  _ down.

A lot of things happened at once. The crowd erupted into cheers, the glass rocking precariously as fans slapped their hands against it. Their mouths hung agape as their shouts mingled, then got drowned out by the goal horn, an obnoxious foghorn that was goddamn music to Keith’s ears. The spotlights came on, trailing Keith as he glid through his remaining momentum, braking on the edge of the boards.

The closest blue jersey was skating full tilt towards him, arms stretching up as he drew nearer. Finally he was near enough for Keith to recognise him as Jackson, his shouts joining in with the rest of the bedlam as he leapt towards Keith to close the remaining distance between them. Keith reached out to catch him, so as to not be crushed under his teammate, his back slamming into the boards but barely registering the sensation for the ecstasy pumping through his veins.

“Fuck yeah!” Jackson whooped, wrapping his arms around Keith and pulling him off the boards, rubbing a hand ferociously against the top of Keith’s helmet. 

They’d barely made it to the hash marks before another body collided with them, then another, and suddenly Keith was cocooned by every Leaf on the ice, save their goalie. The goal song played on, the crowd intermittently cheering a ‘Go Leafs Go!’ to the tune.

Keith was relinquished, playfully jostled a few more times, then skated over to the bench for a fist-bump from each of his teammates there. Once he got to the end he climbed over the boards, the line shifting down to accommodate for him.

“Atta boy, Kogane,” coach Stills praised, accompanied by two rough pats on the back. “Okay, let’s keep the ball rollin’, boys!”

* * *

 

Apparently, no one on the other team had learned their lesson the first time: if you don’t want Keith to score, don’t ever let him get the puck.

A blocked shot on the penalty kill left the puck dribbling right towards Keith. Before anyone else could react, he shot down the ice. At that point their fate was sealed— _ no one _ could catch Keith when he got a head start.

It was almost like everyone else was standing still, from his vantage point. He carried his speed over the blue line and let it transfer into the puck, pushing into his stick with as much force as he could muster, launching it into the five-hole before the goalie could drop to his knees and close it up.

The reaction to his second goal was practically identical to the first time, and the familiarity made it all the more sweet.

* * *

 

It was a bit disrespectful at this point, really. The least Keith could do is give the opposing team a  _ chance _ . But Keith wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and when that gift came in the form of a juicy rebound landing directly onto his tape, he wasted no time shoving the puck in, tucking it under the goalie’s blocker glove.

The reaction—both on ice and behind the glass—was momentarily delayed, like there was a disbelief at what had just happened. Reality caught up quickly though, and the crowd’s roar was deafening by the time the reaction came full-circle, hats raining down onto the ice as Keith’s teammates crushed him yet again, the pungent odor of their collective sweat from almost sixty minutes of hockey doing little to sour the moment.

* * *

 

**[Lance:** I’m keepin my eye on u **]**

**[Lance:** Actually we all are my mom’s watching with me and my dad’s listening on the radio downstairs. So don’t disappoint my parents keith **]**

**[Lance:** FDJKJKD FCUK YE BOIIIII **]**

**[Lance:** FUCKIN BEAUTY **]**

**[Lance:** OMFG ANOTHER??? **]**

**[Lance:** A fuckin shorty too that’s DIRTY kogane **]**

**[Lance:** YOU’RE FUCKING JOKING **]**

**[Lance:** HOOOOOLY SHIT KEITH WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN REAL **]**

**[Lance:** FCUKING CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE DONE **]**

**[Lance:** CALL ME CALL ME ANSWER YOUR PHONEEEEE **]**

Keith blinked at the messages, having only opened his phone now that the team had loaded onto the bus towards their next game, out of town. He glanced at the timestamp of the last message, and gave a guilty grimace.

_ Well, better late than never _ , he told himself as he pressed ‘call,’ lifting his phone to his ear and listening to the ringing tone.

“ _ Keith! _ ” Lance’s voice cut through halfway through the second ring. “ _ Oh my god, congratulations on the win _ — _ and that game! _ ”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Thanks. Did I play good?”

“ _ Did _ — _ did you _ — _? _ ” Lance sputtered nonsensically for a second. “ _ You were incredible! Like, are you sure you’re human? ‘Cause I don’t believe that for a second. You’re definitely an alien _ — _ at least a little bit. Don’t lie to me. _ ”

“I guess  _ technically  _ I can’t confirm or deny that.”

“ _ I can’t believe you’re the same guy who puked after we rode The Bat. _ ”

“We rode, like, five other roller coasters right before that!” He defended.

“ _ Hey, there ain’t no shame in it! Or, actually, maybe there’s a little shame, but you’re not the first guy whose hair I had to hold back while they ralphed into a garbage can at Wonderland, don’t worry. _ ”

Keith scoffed. “And here you had me feeling all special—”

“Hey Keith!” Came a disgruntled shout from somewhere behind him. “You can call your fucking girlfriend later, ‘m trying to sleep over here!”

He tensed a bit, cradling the phone to his chest and tilting his head back to call back, “Fuck  _ off _ , Maxy,”  before bringing the phone back up. “Sorry—”

“ _ Was that Maxime Laroche? Just now. Did he just ask about me?! _ ”

Keith sighed, dropping his voice to a mutter. “He called you my  _ girlfriend _ , La—”

“ _ Oh my god, I can’t believe you know him _ — _ like,  _ know him _ know him _ — _ tell him I say hi! _ ”

“I’m not doing that, Lance.”

“ _ Ugh fine, then put me on speaker so I can say it myself. _ ”

“I’m not doing  _ that _ , Lance. Look, I think… I’ve got to go now,” he admitted.

“ _ … Oh. Right, _ ” his tone faltered, but his cheer picked right back up, “ _ y’know I should probably go too, I’ve got a test in an 8 AM class tomorrow. Anyhow, I just wanted to say congrats for kicking total ass, and good luck on Monday with your next game! _ ”

It tugged at Keith’s heartstrings, as well as the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. And hey, I’ll text you.”

“ _ Yeah? _ ” The hope lilting in Lance’s voice was doing dangerous things to Keith’s insides.

“Yeah. G’nite, and, uh… good luck on your test.”

“ _ Oh boy, I’m going to need it, _ ” he laughed. “ _ G’nite, Keith. _ ” 

The click on the other line instilled both a sense of relief and apprehension in Keith at once. On the one hand, Maxy made it sound like Keith was being… less than subtle. Pairing that with Lance’s lack of volume control, he feared his little secret might’ve been in jeopardy.

He did a quick (hopefully furtive) glance around the bus, relieved that all of the other occupants seemed to be either too engrossed in what they were doing or too tired to care about him. Even Maxy in the row behind and across from him was currently slumped against the his window, his light snore indicating he was making good on the assertion that he was sleeping.

Keith released a silent sigh, sinking into the chair as he let himself feel the slightest relief, let himself feel the excitement bubbling up. Lance was watching the game. Lance was impressed—he was  _ ecstatic _ . Keith buried a grin in his collar.

* * *

 

**[Lance:** Gjfdjkdkj please tell me you got the chance to rewatch your spill **]**

**[Keith:** ??? No **]**

**[Lance:** Hang on I’ll find you a link **]**

**[Keith:** No wtf **]**

**[Lance:** Keith it’s hilarious **]**

**[Keith:** Fuck off **]**

**[Keith:** That fall cost us the game **]**

**[Lance:** Dude…… it didnt **]**

**[Lance:** I was watching that whole game. The defence shit the bed and u guys were outshot to hell. It was a shit game **]**

**[Keith:** Well shit why didn’t you say so??? That makes me feel so much fucking better **]**

**[Keith:** My fall caused the turnover that gave up the first goal **]**

**[Keith:** We lost momentum because of my fuckup **]**

**[Lance:** Hey, you can’t put that on yourself. Your stick’s not the only one on the ice **]**

**[Lance:** You had five other players on the ice at a time, and every one of em had more reason to take charge and lead the team than you **]**

**[Lance:** Also goaltending was shit tonight don’t tell anyone I said that though **]**

**[Keith:** So now the whole team sucks??? **]**

**[Lance:** No!!! God just listen for a second before u get mad **]**

**[Lance:** So u lost and that sucks. And you fucked up! That also sucks **]**

**[Lance:** And being an elite athlete ur probably not used to doing much of either **]**

**[Lance:** But guess what? It’s gonna happen. You’re gonna have a LOT of losses and sometimes ur gonna do embarrassing shit!!! And you can’t let it get the better of u **]**

**[Lance:** Trust me, as someone who basically makes a living making an ass of himself, if you can’t let urself laugh at the dumb things you end up doing it’s gonna eat u up **]**

**[Keith:** Everyone’s gonna be talking about it. Everyone’s gonna be blaming me **]**

**[Lance:** Did your coach? Like, in words **]**

**[Keith:** No… **]**

**[Lance:** Well, isn’t that the only opinion that matters? He obviously saw what I did, that every nights a team effort and tonight it just didn’t happen **]**

**[Lance:** And everyones gonna forget about what happened this game, it’s so early in the season and there are so many more games to play **]**

**[Lance:** Which is why I’m dling the video so I can always remember :3c **]**

**[Keith:** Ur an ass **]**

**[Keith:** … Is it actually funny though? **]**

**[Lance:** K E I T H **]**

**[Lance:** It’s hilarious there’s a slow mo **]**

**[Keith:** Ugh alright fine send it. I can’t exactly feel worse tonight **]**

**[Lance:** That’s sort of the spirit!!! We’ll work on the enthusiasm dw **]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hockey??? In my hockey AU??? Since when. Btw the reason the fans threw their hats onto the rink is because Keith scored a hat trick (three goals in a game.)
> 
> Glid looks so awkward I had to check like 5 times but that’s the legiteral actual past participle. I hate English so much.
> 
> Jackson’s my fave and my baby boy btw so catch the goddamn tea on that. U can basically smell the favouritism rolling off of him but sue me!!!!!!!!!!!! Actually don’t I work so many hours and have so little disposable income I have to pay for my school and my car and she’s a sexy lady who deserves only the best. My car, that is, not my school. My school can suck a dicc, longest fucking strike Canadian uni history. gahd.
> 
> ALSO I WANNA SAY.,,,, I wrote the last scene before season six came out so I guess my Lance characterisation can’t be too bad if I’m basically giving him the same lines as the show lmfao. I watched that scene where he was comforting allura and was like that meme of the two spidermans (spider… men???? Technically from a linguistic standpoint it’s mans trust me I spend far too much money studying this shit) pointing at each other.
> 
> Also yo I know none of u follow hockey (or maybe u do and uve remained silent?????? Blease don’t b shie) but… for the record the last scene was challenging that long goal Bernier let in like god only remembers how long ago. Reims was still on the team I'm p sure of that (btw I would sell my soul for Reimer to be a Leaf again I WANT THAT ON THE RECORD TOO)
> 
> Anyway,,
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** Lance visibly brightened when he finally caught sight of Keith, both arms shooting up in an arcing wave over his head. And Keith was still pissed, he told himself, believing it less and less with every step closer Lance bounded over. 
> 
> “It’s so good to see you!” He squeezed Keith tight, not letting up in the slightest to allow Keith to pry his arms out from between them. “Like, without the TV in between us,” he clarified, then pulled away, revealing a broad grin as he turned to gesture towards his companions. “These are my friends! That’s Hunk—” he pointed to the big guy, who offered a wave, “—and Pidge.” He waved towards the shorter one, who now stuck out a hand for Keith to shake.
> 
> Keith obliged, stepping forward to accept a firm handshake. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you guys.”
> 
> “All horrible, I assume,” Hunk said, extending another handshake that Keith took.
> 
> “What other option is there,” Pidge contributed, hands going to her hips. “And we’ve heard a lot about you…” she gazed sidelong at Lance, her expression meaningful but hard for Keith to decipher.
> 
> Lance cleared his throat. “Anyways we’re late,” he made a hasty beeline to the driver’s door as he fumbled with his keys to get it unlocked, “so we should go.”


	4. Haunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith meets Lance’s friends, and later, his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter’s late, I had cray cray week
> 
> Y’ALL HOCKEY’S BACK!!! I mean--not like this fic. I mean the fic /is/ back, but I meant NHL hockey. The preseason’s started, AND I’M PUMPED!!!
> 
> What that also means is that it’s almost Halloween--and since everyone knows that Halloween /actually/ starts on 1 September, that means IT’S ALREADY TIME TO GET SPOOPY. I’ll admit I didn’t actually plan for this chapter to come out on the eve of the greatest month of the year, but it’s what happened so I’m taking it.
> 
> A big reason I love halloween so much--past the fact that I’m just so queer--is because that means it’s Halloween Haunt time! There’s an explanation of what Haunt is in the chapter so I won’t go over it twice, but it’s tradition that me and my sister go every year, and it’s always fun as hell, so I’m hella stoked to go this year too! I will warn you guys if you’re googling it there is the possibility of some gore, so if ur very sensitive to that I’d suggest not looking it up.
> 
> For the observant among you, you might notice that that’s where I got the chapter name from. I’m a master of literary devices, can’t you tell? Paul Verlaine ain’t got nothing on me babey (I told myself I’d leave my french lit course in my past author’s notes but here I am, as are the symbolists. I guess this is my cross to bear en tabarnak)
> 
> Oh quick note: there’s mention of past transphobia, though I did my best to frame the queer characters involved with as much agency as I could. Nonetheless, if you’re not comfortable w it, it starts after “I started hormone therapy,” and ends at “You’d have to pay me to do it” (which is essentially the end of the scene, right before the break.)
> 
> And another few pieces of hockey terminology  
> Wildcard: A playoff berth given to the top two teams in a conference who didn’t qualify for the playoffs by being top three in their division. Functionally speaking, it’s the state of having a precarious berth in the playoffs.  
> Flow: hockey hair. Helmets cover a lot of head, so a lot of players grow their hair long so it sticks out the bottom and “flows” out.  
> Lettuce: Helmet hair with flow, so named because the shape of it loosely resembles a lettuce head. Lettuce doesn’t have a particular positive or negative connotation, it’s pretty much just a state of being for hair.

Keith shivered as the wind gusted again down the alley, pulling the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around him as he slumped further against Lance’s car. Once the freezing gust passed he picked up his eyes, scanning as far down the busy street as his vantage point would allow for the telltale red-and-white of the TTC bus he was waiting for.

Lance had said it’d be here  _ ten minutes ago _ . And Keith had been an idiot for (1) believing him, but more importantly (2) arriving five minutes earlier in his haste to see him again. Could you blame him, though? This was going to be the first time he saw Lance face-to-face since the season started, and their constant text correspondence had done little to sate Keith’s desire to see the other again (in fact, it had done quite the opposite, much to his dismay.)

So when Lance had texted him “hey, you busy?” on essentially the one day Keith was both free and in town, he’d jumped at the opportunity, almost knocking Shiro over on his way out the door to meet Lance by his pale-blue Dodge Neon out the side of his family’s store. Which landed him where he currently was, huddled in his jacket against Lance’s beater, giving something between a relieved sigh and a frustrated huff when a bus  _ finally  _ came to its stop at the street corner.

Keith stood up a bit straighter as the doors opened, Lance’s unmistakeable lanky figure, clad in a bright red pullover whose hood he pulled over his head, emerging. A pair of others tailed behind him, and Keith deduced that they must’ve been his friends when Lance began speaking over his shoulder to them, pulling a hand out of his pocket to gesture along as the trio made their way towards Keith. One stood at about Lance’s height and twice his width, the puffy bomber they wore doing little to diminish their silhouette. The other came up to his shoulder, shoulders hunched up as they buried their face in an enormous scarf.

Lance turned forward, visibly brightening when he finally caught sight of Keith, both arms shooting up in an arcing wave over his head. And Keith was  _ still _ pissed, he told himself, believing it less and less with every step closer Lance bounded over. He unfurled a hand to lift it in a meek wave, unable to keep a laugh from bubbling up as Lance’s roll failed to slow as he drew nearer, toppling Keith into the sedan with a surprising hug.

“It’s so good to  _ see  _ you!” He squeezed Keith tight, not letting up in the slightest to allow Keith to pry his arms out from between them. Keith opted to return the hug by setting his hands against Lance’s lower back, mainly because that was the only thing he could manage to reach. “Like, without the TV in between us,” Lance clarified, then pulled away, revealing a broad grin as he turned to gesture towards his companions. “These are my friends! That’s Hunk—” he pointed to the big guy, who offered a wave, “—and Pidge.” He motioned towards the shorter one, who now stuck out a hand for Keith to shake.

Keith obliged, stepping forward to accept a firm handshake. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you guys.”

“All horrible, I assume,” Hunk said, extending another hand that Keith took.

“What other option is there?” Pidge contributed, hands going to her hips. “And we’ve heard a lot about you…” She gazed sidelong at Lance, her expression meaningful but hard for Keith to decipher.

Lance cleared his throat. “Anyways we’re late,” he made a hasty beeline to the driver’s door as he fumbled with his keys to get it unlocked, “so we should go.” The locks audibly flipped, and Keith went to the door behind Lance’s, sliding in and over to the other side, Pidge following him and shutting the door behind her.

“Yeah,” Keith grumbled, “you  _ were  _ late.”

“There was an accident on the way; it blocked half the street!” Lance protested, turning the car over and cranking the heat up all the way, “what did you  _ want  _ me to do?”

“ _ Texting _ me might’ve been a start.” Keith buckled his seatbelt, then rubbed his hands together.

“Good idea Keith,” Hunk drawled, “Lance, want to tell Keith  _ why  _ you didn’t text him?”

Lance threw his hands up in the air. “My phone’s dead! Again, what do you want me to do?”

“Usually  _ charging it _ does the trick,” Pidge patronised, sitting up to reach between the seats, beckoning at him with a hand.

With an overly put-out huff, he fished his phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. She dropped back into her seat, pulling a mobile charger from her bag and plugging it in, just as the car lurched into motion.

“Well we’re here now,” Lance turned right onto the street, navigating their way out of the neighbourhood, “and we’re on our way, so ‘ _ beating up on Lance _ ’ time is officially over and it’s now ‘ _ thanking Lance for taking us out for yet another epic night _ ’ time!” They idled at a left hand turn, waiting for an opportunity to go.

“Where  _ are  _ we going?” Keith asked.

Hunk gasped. “Lance, you didn’t tell him?”

“I don’t know if he’d go for it if I did! Would  _ you  _ have the first time?”

“Isn’t that the point of asking?” Pidge countered.

Lance waved off their protests. “He’ll be  _ fine _ —you’ll be fine, won’t you, Keith?”

“For  _ what _ ? You still haven’t told me.”

“Halloween Haunt,” Pidge informed. When Keith returned her expectant look with a nonplussed one, she frowned. “You know, at Canada’s Wonderland?” He blinked. “Do you  _ not  _ watch TV? There’s commercials for it every day!”

He shook his head. “We don’t have cable, only Netflix.”

Hunk leaned his head back, doing his best to address Keith while sitting directly ahead of him. “Halloween Haunt’s this annual thing that goes down at Wonderland. For the month of October the whole park gets transformed into, like, one big haunted house, with mazes and actors and whatnot.”

“It’s amazing!” Lance contributed.

“It’s  _ horrifying _ ,” Hunk corrected, “when your friends force you into doing it without warning you.” He gave Lance a clearly pointed look.

Lance held up a finger. “But hey, you survived, and now you love it! ‘Sides, you don’t get scared, right Keith?” He goaded.

Keith smirked, knowing he was being baited but too proud to not rise to it. “ _ Please _ . Next time, make it an actual challenge.”

Pidge shook her head, tapping the back of Lance’s headrest. “You sound like  _ this _ one the first time we went, five minutes before he was shrieking in my ear and using me as a human shield.”

“Don’t slander my good name with lies, Pidge!” He swung the car violently in a left turn that left Keith clutching onto the seat before him, his stomach flipping, narrowly missing an oncoming car.

“Jesus,” Keith cursed, his ass reconnecting with the bench as Lance straightened them out, peeling down the road.

Ahead of him, Hunk groaned a miserable, “ _ Laaance _ …”

“Lance, we know you always say you can’t drive ‘cause you’re—”

“ _ Ixnay _ , Pidge,” Lance hissed, following a sign that led them towards the northbound DVP, “and I  _ can  _ drive! I just forget I’ve got passengers sometimes.”

Keith saw the irritation drop from her face, replaced by genuine curiosity. In a moment, she turned on Keith. “So hey, what’s it like playing pro hockey?”

“Uh…”  _ Where did  _ that  _ come from? _ “Kind of like playing in lower leagues. But like, a  _ hell  _ of a lot faster. Did… did you play?” He asked, mainly to know whether or not his analogy would even make sense to her.

She grinned. “Yep! Started in Timbits, played up ‘til I went to high school, when I had to stop.”

He gave a knowing nod. “Injury?”

Her smile tightened. “I started hormone therapy.”

Keith’s gut clenched reflexively, but he did his best to keep the surprise from crawling up to his face. “Oh.”

She hummed a curt, “Mmhm,” eyes flicking to a space between the two front seats.

A heavy silence reigned over the car for a moment, then Keith furrowed his brow, turning in his seat towards her. “Wait, why’d that make you stop?”

“They didn’t want me to play on the boys’ team anymore—which honestly? I didn’t either.” she met his gaze again with an unspoken ‘ _ you _ know what goes on in those locker rooms.’ Keith  _ definitely _ understood where she stood on that. “And they wouldn’t let me try out for the girls’ team either—said I had an unfair advantage ‘cause of the team I used to play on.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Keith argued, “girls play on guys’ teams all the time—Hayley Wickenheiser did it and she…” he trailed off. Could he say it? How  _ would _ he say it?

“She’s cis,” Hunk finished for him, “not trans, which was the real reason they wouldn’t let Pidge play.”

“Unfair advantage my ass,” Lance scoffed, “look at her, Keith: she’s  _ four feet tall _ !” She scuffed a half-hearted kick to the back of his seat, but wore a warm smile despite herself. “We protested it, by the way. TP-ed the coach’s car and everything.”

“Then we did the  _ smart thing _ ,” Hunk continued, “and went to the league.”

“Who did nothing,” Lance countered, “so you tell  _ me  _ which plan was smarter.”

“Well… they can’t do that, can they?” Keith asked. Pidge shrugged. “It’s bullshit. I thought—studies proved it doesn’t give you an advantage, so what the fuck do they care?”

She gave a wry smirk. “You’re asking the right questions, Keith. But hey,” she shrugged, “my dad still floods a backyard rink for me every winter, ‘n I still get to play shinny with him and my brother, so it’s something.”

Lance scoffed. “Who wants to play with a bunch of transphobes, anyway?”

“You’d have to pay me to do it,” Keith answered. A moment of silence followed, as the rest of the car processed, but Lance broke it with a laugh.

“I  _ knew  _ you could make jokes!” He reached between the seats to slap Keith on the knee, barely managing to graze his thigh and getting a handful of the seat instead. “I told you two, right? It’s just a resting bitch face.”

“A— _ hey _ !”

* * *

Keith warmed up to Hunk and Pidge very quickly—it’s pretty hard not to when you’re clutching onto someone’s shirt for dear life every few seconds.

Pidge and Lance stood to the side of the haunted house’s exit, wearing matching shit-eating grins as they waited for Hunk and him to make it out. Keith hoped the wobble of his knees wasn’t evident, particularly with Hunk leaning practically all of his weight into him. Even now, removed from the flashing lights, the shaking props, and the actors in full costume lunging at him, Keith still jolted every time he heard a  _ bang! _ from behind him.

“Jeez Keith,” Lance laughed, “I had no idea you could shriek like that—you’ve got some vocal range, buddy.”

“I’m surprised you could hear me over your own shrieks,” Keith threw back, knowing it was a weak retort but figuring it his best chance at maintaining some dignity.

“I’m not!” Pidge’s hand shot up, and Keith rolled his eyes—this was usually a  _ lot  _ easier, when it was just Lance’s word against his.

Lance stuffed his hands in his pockets, spinning on his heel to lead them onwards. “Well now that you two’ve finally caught up, let’s get movin’! Next is the haunted… circus?—Er, Pidge?”

“Hang on.” She pulled out her map of the park, Lance resting a hand on her shoulder as he peered at the page too, the two of them walking in step.

Keith moved to follow them, now on much sturdier legs. “Hunk?”

“Mm?”

“You good?” He rolled out the shoulder currently stuffed under Hunk’s armpit.

“Oh—sorry.” Hunk pulled away with a sheepish laugh, and Keith let his fingers untangle from his shirt. “Y’know, we’ve been doing this for years, but I still get scared witless every time we go.”

Keith chuckled, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he and Hunk strolling idly as they followed Pidge and Lance’s hurried strides. “And you still do it?”

“Yeah, I mean… It’s tradition, and it makes those two happy.” He nodded ahead, a gentle smile on his lips. “Besides, ‘s not that bad. And it  _ is  _ kind of fun, to let yourself get scared and scream and all that.”

He watched the two ahead of them, Lance wrapping an arm around Pidge’s shoulders and squeezing her into his side, the latter pushing him away with an audible cackle. “I get it,” he replied.

He and Hunk were silent for a beat, watching as Lance momentarily paused to let Pidge climb onto his back. “So, you and Lance, huh?”

Keith’s gut swirled at his phrasing— _ innocuous _ , he told himself,  _ it doesn’t mean what it sounds like to you _ —and he took a moment to ensure his voice didn’t crack when he answered, hesitant. “What about it?”

Hunk laughed. “I don’t know, it’s just… look, I’ve known Lance all my life, and he’s got a bit of a loud personality at times.”

“At all times, I’d say.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother you, though.”

Keith’s gaze faltered to the pavement. “It seems weird for someone like me, I know.”

Hunk gave an uncertain hum. “It’s—he can be an  _ experience _ . And don’t get me wrong, it’s what I love about him, but it can be a lot. So it’s just… surprising, especially with the fact that you play for the Leafs.”

“It’s actually not been an issue—Lance doesn’t make a big deal about it.”

“Really,” Hunk chuckled, “now  _ that’s  _ something I never thought I’d hear. Who’d’ve thought it’d take a hockey player to get Lance to shut up about hockey? So, how’d you two meet then?”

Keith looked back to Hunk, quirking a brow. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He told me _something_ , but Pidge and I called bullshit on. We figure he probably pestered you ‘til you gave in and agreed to hang out with him.” Keith chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time he did that, though usually he’ll do that to get a _date_.” He emphasised the final word, as if the suggestion were laughable.

Keith’s jaw reflexively set, but he quickly forced it to relax. “I live by his family’s store, and I stopped by the night I moved in for some food, and we just… got to talking. He offered to show me around the city, and… he’s cool.”

Hunk snorted. “Lance,  _ cool _ ?”

Keith waved him off, a blush burning his cheeks despite the seasonable chill. “‘S not how I meant it—and you better not tell him I said that.” Hunk laughed, holding his hands up in a silent surrender. “I meant more he’s like… chill? Or—he doesn’t make a big deal over me being… y’know. He treats me like I’m just another guy. I always have fun when I’m with him, and… it’s always been hard keeping friends with my schedule, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He makes it easy.”

“Hey babies!” Lance hollered, spinning dangerously quickly with Pidge still in tow to face them. “Quit draggin’ your feet! We’re hitting every house tonight, so we’ve got to get a move on—unless, of course, our newcomer’s too  _ chicken _ ,” he taunted, his paces slowing down as he walked backwards.

“In your dreams!” Keith retorted.

Pidge leaned over to whisper something to Lance, to which he visibly balked. “If it’s too much to handle,” he called back, pointedly ignoring whatever she’d said, “you can wait outside with the other  _ babies  _ while us big kids handle it.” She made another unheard comment in his ear, and he gasped, “Enough, you demon!”

Keith thwacked Hunk on the shoulder, picking up his pace. “C’mon, I’ve still got a morsel of pride left to defend.”

* * *

 

Keith  _ hated  _ the cold.

Or, perhaps that’s a bit misleading. Keith didn’t hate the cold—it sort of came with the territory of his job, after all—it was cold  _ weather  _ he hated: waking up to a frozen condo, the cutting chill of the wind against your bare face, and the layers of clothing you had to pile on before leaving the house—the ones that didn’t quite insulate Keith enough for him to not feel the chill, but did so enough that his post-training sweat stuck to his body, trapped under shirts and sweaters and jackets and  _ definitely  _ making a mess of his hair under his toque.

And he really hated it when it meant his car’s tires had to be changed to snows, and according to Shiro that meant it was undriveable until such a time. So Keith had been stuck bumming rides to-and-from practice for the past two weeks while his hundred-thousand-dollar car sat useless in his building’s underground parking.

He adjusted another time under the hot air blasting from his teammate’s car’s vents, the chill in his bones yearning for more while the sweat sticking to his skin suggested he ask they pull the car over and take the opportunity to skinny dip in the lake. How had they been in a heat wave less than three months ago? At least in Arizona, you only had to contend with the temperature being hot as hell; right now, it felt more like hell was freezing over in the city.

“You holdin’ up alright?” Jackson didn’t lift his eyes from the road, one hand on the steering wheel as his temple rested against the other, elbow propped up on the window sill. “Bet you never had a winter like this back home.”

“‘M fine,” Keith confirmed. “Helps that I don’t have to transit down.” 

He  _ had _ tried to, initially—nothing if not stubbornly independent—and it had ended with him lost in the completely opposite direction and having to call Shiro for a ride back into the city, defeating the purpose. His pride was a small price to pay, and luckily his teammates had been more than willing to lend a hand.

“Thanks for the ride again, by the way.”

Jackson flashed a wide grin. “Anytime, Cakes.”

“Ugh, don’t  _ call  _ me that.” Keith slouched further, as Jackson chuckled. “What are the odds that the nickname lasts the week?”

He shook his head. “Nah man, when Stillsy gives you a nickname, it sticks.”

He groaned. Coach had been testing out a variety of nicknames for Keith to limited success—his teammates had told him his name didn’t make it very easy, and he reasoned back that he didn’t see anything wrong with simply calling him ‘Keith’—but everyone (apart from Keith himself, naturally) had reached the consensus that Cakes, derived from clumsy attempts to address him by his initials, was it.

And Keith probably hated it more than he hated the cold weather—at least that would come and go.

“What’s wrong with it?” He asked, the barely concealed amusement in his tone indicating he knew  _ exactly  _ what was wrong with it.

Keith rolled his eyes. “I hope it never comes out in an interview, I’ll never hear the end of it from…”

_ Lance _ , his mind automatically supplied.

“My brother,” he continued, though Shiro’s likely short-lived teasing was far from the forefront of his mind—he’d simply made it a rule not to talk about Lance too often in front of his team. Even though they were just friends, it still seemed too close. Too risky.

Jackson gave another good-natured laugh. “Would that be such a bad thing? It might help unlodge that huge stick you got up your ass.” Keith scoffed, but he continued regardless. “Honestly man, we all thought you hated us for the longest time, turns out you’re just like that—who knew? It might be good to let that ego take a hit once in a while.”

Keith set his jaw at the suggestion—he supposed no one loved being vulnerable, but Keith positively couldn’t  _ stand  _ it. It was against his nature: he was a fighter—he’d  _ learned  _ to be one—and the worst thing a fighter could do was show weakness of any kind.

So he dismissed Jackson with a roll of his eyes. “With the way I’ve been playing, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

Jackson guffawed, switching hands on the steering wheel to let him reach over and muss Keith’s hair beneath his hat. “See, ‘s what I’m talkin’ about! You let all that shit inflate your head and you’re in for some big shit when reality catches up to you.”

The corners of Keith’s mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Or maybe you’re just sour that your points’ve been dropping ever since Stills moved you off my line.”

“ _ ‘Your’ _ line? See, this is what I’ve been saying—you’ve got  _ no  _ respect for your elders, Cakes.”

“Earn it first, Jay.” Jackson reached out again for Keith’s hair, and he swiftly ducked, intercepting it with a hand and a laugh. Distantly, he wondered how they hadn’t plowed into another car yet as they pulled off the expressway, given Jay’s propensity to rough house and Keith’s for immediate retaliation.

As much as he pretended to hate it, he truly had missed Jackson’s presence while Stills juggled the lines, both as a player (for as much as Keith chirped him, he was one  _ hell  _ of a shot) and as a friend.

“Left or right?” Jackson asked, turning the car accordingly when Keith nodded to the right. “Now is it just me, or is Coach getting, like, way harsher in this past week?”

“Game’s tomorrow,” Keith replied simply, “hosting his former team, he’s probably getting big pressure to secure the win.”

“No yeah but,” he waved a dismissive hand, “but it’s something else too—this time last year we weren’t going nearly as hard.”

“Left,” Keith informed, receiving an understanding nod in return. “This time last year you weren’t in a wildcard spot either, though.” Keith knew it was way,  _ way  _ too early in the season to call it one way or another—especially with a team that has a reputation for late season tanks—but everyone in the locker room and the stands  _ knew  _ that their current trend wasn’t a fluke. Something was happening in this team: the rebuild they promised was taking shape far sooner than anyone could’ve expected, and that came with a lot of added pressure on all of them.

“Ugh,” he slouched further into the driver’s seat, “but it makes me so tired at the end of practice—I barely have the energy to eat and drag my ass to bed when I get home.”

“Is that the plan for today?”

Jackson sighed. “Nah, I’m taking my girl out tonight; it’s our second anniversary so we got a dinner res.”

“Right again, I’m on this street. That long, huh? Sarah’s such a nice girl though, what the hell’d she do to deserve putting up with you for two years?”

“You’re fuckin’ relentless, Cakes. She’s in it for the paycheque— _ obviously _ .” Keith snorted, and Jackson waited a beat before continuing. “You should come out with us one night, y’know? It could be a double date; bring your girl.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I don’t  _ have  _ a girl,” he insisted, feeling like a broken record, “why don’t any of you believe me?”

“Uhh—”  _ Okay _ , he silently admitted,  _ shouldn’t have asked _ “—first off? Girls fucking throw themselves at you, Keith—like fucking, when we’re out with you it’s like we don’t even exist—you’re like one of those K-Pop idols.”

“I’m Japanese, but okay.”

Jackson continued, unabated. “You could literally fuck every girl in town—” Keith grimaced, since when did they cross over into locker room talk? “—but you choose not to?”

“I don’t have time to date. And even if I did, I’m not interested.”

“Keith. C’mon,” he prompted, an incredulous expression tugging an eyebrow up, “I know what I’m talking about—it’s natural: guys our age want to stick their dick in everything they see, but only guys like us actually have the  _ opportunity _ . You’re telling me you haven’t banged a single chick since you’ve been up here?”

Keith stiffened, his heart leaping to his throat. “Wh—it’s not—I—”

Jackson held up a finger. “Y’see? You’re not just taken, you’re  _ whipped _ , Keith.” Keith released a tiny breath, hoping Jackson wouldn’t tell how relieved he was that  _ that  _ was his conclusion. He brought two fingers up to stick beneath Keith’s nose. “Second, you’re super obvious when you’re texting with her.”

“I told you, that’s—”

“Your brother,” he finished for Keith. “Or your parents—I know. But let me tell you something, no one smiles that much when they’re texting their  _ mom _ . Whipped.”

“Not.”

He mimicked the sound of a whip crack, utilising the time idling at a yielding stop sign to gesture a matching pantomime at Keith.

Keith rolled his eyes, glancing to what stood just out his window. “You can let me out here.” He reached to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Wh— well hang on.” He frowned apologetically, his tone a bit more sincere. “I mean, your building’s right there, it’s no problem.”

Keith shrugged, pushing the door open and gathering his bag in his free hand. “It’s fine. You can take the right and get back to the highway easier.” His sore shoulders tensed when the cold air blew in.

“Hey, no hard feelings, right Cakes?” Earnesty leaked into his expression, for as much as Jackson tried to conceal it.

And despite the nickname, he shook his head. “Nah, I’ve got to—” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the storefront “—pick up some shit anyway.”

Jackson nodded, yielding. “Alright. I don’t want you to go home and cry to your girlfriend about this, y’know.”

Keith scoffed, yanking his bag out the car. “Fuck off, Jay.”

Jackson grinned as Keith slammed the door, the car rocking on its wheels. “Bye Cakes!” He called, just loud enough for Keith to hear it before he pulled around the curb and out of sight.

Another breeze blew and Keith stiffened, reminding him to move. He spun on his heel and looked up at the McClain family’s convenience store.

_ Well, from one cute boy you have no chance with to another _ , he figured, ducking his head and rushing towards the warmth inside.

It had become a bit of a routine: Keith would finish training, pop in for a Gatorade, use it as an excuse to chat with Lance for however long the latter could spare, then return to his day. It was comforting for him, the familiarity and predictability of it all grounding him at a time where so much of his life made him feel anything but.

Not to mention how nice it was to see Lance at the end of practice, be it good or bad. Always there, always smiling, always ready to talk.

He did it so often that Lance had ultimately offered to give him the drinks on the house, but Keith had staunchly refused (and won the ensuing battle of insistences on footing the bill.) He certainly could pay for it, and didn’t do this out of necessity—he got free sports drinks at training through sponsorships, after all—and the last thing he wanted to do was add to the McClains’ business expenses because he was a little too thirsty (pun unfortunately intended) after practice. Part of him wondered how Lance would respond if he knew that Keith didn’t have to buy a drink from him every time he came around. Another part of him wondered if he already did, but played along anyway.

That idea made him unfairly giddy, so he tried to not think it often.

The seal of the door frame broke and Keith was immediately invited by the warmth, expecting the familiarity to follow. He lifted his eyes to the front counter, his greeting catching halfway from his throat as his feet stilled, wide eyes catching his own gaze and inciting a similar reaction in him.

“Uh…” he vocalised, mainly to give his gaping maw a task.

This was  _ not  _ Lance.

“You—you’re—” the man behind the counter stood abruptly, eyes locked on Keith as he rounded the counter, the glasses hanging low on his nose nearly jarring themselves off the edge when he bumped the corner of the table, gaze still locked on him. “Keith Ko—”

“Yeah, I am.” Keith winced as Lance’s dad’s face lit up. He started to lift his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I—”

He clearly misread Keith’s gesture, intercepting one of them halfway up with two of his, clasping it and shaking violently. “Robert McClain. It’s an honour—my wife and I are big fans—Oh!” If it were possible, his smile stretched even further. “And my son, too! You’re his favourite player; he talks about you all the time!”

Keith blinked, caught aback. “Wait, he—?”

“He’s just upstairs—hang on, I’ll call him down!” Keith’s hand was mercifully relinquished, only for his shoulders to be seized with a similar vigour, and he was suddenly being pulled forward toward the back room.

“Oh, you don’t—”

“It’ll only be a minute,” he insisted in that same, breathy tone he’d been babbling in since Keith’d arrived, matching him shoulder-to-shoulder as he pulled him along, deceptively strong for how lanky he was. “Lance!” He shouted—practically right into Keith’s ear, no less—and he couldn’t stop himself from the startle it gave him. 

If the rest of the McClain’s shouted as loud as Lance and his father did, it was anyone’s guess how they all weren’t deaf by this point. He took a deep breath, and Keith braced himself for the next shout of his name, edged by frustration this time.

“ _ Lance _ !”

“ _ Ay, ¿qué es, papi _ ?” Echoed off the metal of a spiral staircase, tone matching his father’s irritation and then some, tinged by a whine. Above their heads, steps thundered.

“ _ Apúrate, vamos _ ,” he said, and it must’ve been something pretty rude, judging by Lance’s reaction.

“Ugh,  _ whaaat _ ?” He dragged the syllable for a few seconds as the staircase trembled under those same heavy footfalls. Mr. McClain’s hands squeezed Keith’s shoulders more firmly as Lance’s sneakers came into sight, followed swiftly by the rest of him rounding the staircase about halfway down, pausing there to lean over the railing and look down at them.

He was bundled up in a grey hoodie that looked a size too big for  _ Hunk _ , sweatpants a darker shade of it, and his face paler than both, save for the red outlining his nose. He blinked, nonplussed as he glanced over at Keith, who now shot him a pleading look.

“Hey Ke—” He cut himself off, eyebrows shooting up as it finally clicked. “ _ Oh _ .”

Keith huffed, wanting for all the world to shout ‘ _ yeah, fucking “oh”! _ ’

Lance descended the rest of the staircase, double-time now. “So I  _ might’ve  _ forgotten to mention something.”

“Forgot?” Keith spat, unable to keep himself from saying it.

“Yeah— _ listen _ ,” he shot back at Keith, before dropping it in favour of addressing his father, a rasp in his voice becoming more evident now that he was actually speaking in full sentences. “Could you let go of him, dad?  _ God _ , you’re embarrassing me.”

He grabbed Keith by the lapels and pulled him out of the elder McClain’s grasp, setting him to stumble a bit forwards as he was liberated from the vise grip. He managed to right himself without falling into Lance. His pride breathed a sigh of relief; his heart’s was a bit more disappointed.

“Dad? This is my friend, Keith.” Keith turned around just in time to catch Lance gesture towards the other. “Keith, my dad.”

“We’ve… met,” Keith managed, seeing that Mr. McClain’s face had sagged to a disapproving frown trained on his son.

“This never came up?” He motioned between the two of them, but Lance already had a hand on Keith’s elbow, leading him up the stairs.

“ _ ¡Lo olvidé! ¿Qué quieres de mi? _ ” He fired back, not even looking over his shoulder. “We’re going to my room now! Bye!” The stairs clanged and rattled beneath his footfalls as he pulled Keith further in, this casual pop-in suddenly becoming a lot more than he bargained for.

He glanced back at Lance’s dad, confusion still written across his face as he too tried to piece together what had just transpired. “Um… it was nice to meet you,” he said, an effort to be polite and balance out Lance’s brusque behaviour. He waved for good measure, disappearing out of his sightline as the room upstairs opened up before them.

“I am  _ so  _ sorry,” Lance groaned, the crack in his throat accentuating his obvious shame, “I hope he didn’t freak out on you too much.”

He led them past the threshold of the front door, steps only halting when Keith tugged back to draw his attention, then nodded down to his boots, still very much on his feet. He stood aside while Keith tugged his shoes off, relinquishing his elbow with a sheepish smile after a long second.

When he straightened, Lance thwacked him on the arm and gestured vaguely behind him to another staircase, this time in straight flight form. “My bedroom’s upstairs—mom’s not home, thankfully, but we should be safer up there.”

Distantly, Keith reminded himself of the pretense under which he came here. He balanced it against the prospect of following his crush into his room, site of many a fantasy for him over the years…

He decided not to question Lance, following him wordlessly past the kitchen-cum-dining room and up the stairs. Lance hastily slipped through an opened door, and Keith realised when he follows in a few moments later that he’d done so to start scooping up used tissue piles strewn across the floor.

“Don’t sit there,” he instructed as he passed Keith, who’d been part of the way towards lowering himself onto the corner of Lance’s unmade bed. He straightened as Lance dumped an armful of tissues into the garbage can beside his desk, already halfway full by that point. “Cleanest spot in the room is the desk chair.” He pointed to it in passing, going once again towards his bedside to clean up the rest of the discarded tissues.

Keith nodded—though Lance had his back turned—and set himself down on the chair, the old thing bowing precariously beneath his weight before bobbing back up, proving its ability to hold fast. “You’re sick?” It came out as a question, though it hardly needed answering given what he’d seen thus far. He pulled off his coat, the heat and embarrassment he’d been subjected to warming him up enough that he no longer needed it.

Lance shrugs, making use of the garbage bin once more. “‘S just a cold. No big deal, but my dad didn’t want me sneezing all over the store so he gave me the day off.” He leaned back onto the bed, bouncing on the mattress once with a groan.

The way Lance had whined to his dad earlier, Keith wasn’t sure how much he trusted his assertion, but he kept mum. “D’you go to class?”

Lance coughed brackishly into the crook of one arm, the other shooting up to give a nonchalant wave. “Nah, ‘s just a lecture today anyway. Intro to lit can go one class without the gift of Lance McClain’s presence, contrary to popular belief.”

And it really wasn’t  _ that  _ funny, his brain told him, but his heart didn’t care. He outright  _ giggled _ —Keith’s heart, 1. His pride, 0. 

Lance contributed a chuckle of his own, pushing up onto his elbows and fixing Keith with a warm smile. “You got the day off?” He quirked his head to the side with the question, and god dammit did he know what that _did_ to Keith’s heart?

“Uh…” He stalled to process the actual question (and not just how Lance’s blue eyes twinkled in the light just so when he asked it), eyes dropping to the fingers that pulled away at his scarf, unfurling it from around his neck. “I mean, no game tonight, I’ve got no plans, so…”

“Cool, cool.” Lance nodded, his nose scrunching with a snort when Keith pulled the hat off his head. Keith challenged it with a quirk of his brow, silently daring him to comment on it. “You’ve got fucking  _ lettuce _ , bro,” he said, and Keith figured that the hair had tempered his dangerous look.

He sighed, shaking his sweaty locks out to give the hair around his scalp at least a  _ little  _ more volume, doing his best to remedy the helmet hair. “It’s the toque, not me.”

Lance hummed, flipping over to rest on his stomach now, chin resting in his hands as he settled to face Keith once more. “Yeah, well if you had shorter hair it wouldn’t even be a problem.”

“Like  _ I’m  _ the only hockey player with long hair.”

He rolled his eyes. “‘Kay, but that’s flow, Keith.”

He motioned to his head. “So’s this!”

“Barely! It like… it’s not  _ even _ ,” he reasoned. “Flow’s even, whereas yours is shorter at the top and longer in the back. A little less Jaromir Jagr, a little more Billy Ray Cyrus.”

“Did you just say I look like Billy Ray Cyrus?”

“No, I said your  _ hair  _ does. Big difference.”

Keith frowned thoughtfully. Lance might have a point there. “Maybe I’ll grow it out…” He lifted his eyes to the bangs he pulled up, contemplating it.

“Yeah,” Lance breathed after a beat of silence, prompting Keith to look up to him. “O-or don’t!” He blew a quick chuckle, which trailed off into a cough. “Y’know, either way, ‘s good. Your uh… hair, that is.” He ruffled a hand through his own, then picked back up again. “So hey, your thanksgiving’s coming up, isn’t it?” Keith nodded. “You got plans to go home?”

He shrugged, gaze deviating up Lance’s wall, to the photos taped haphazardly over his desk. His eyes caught on a picture of Lance and his two best friends, the three of them in graduation gowns, and he smiled. “They don’t really give us enough time to take a trip down, plus I’m playing that night. Me and Shiro’ll probably just pick up a takeout together or something.”

Lance pushed up higher on his elbows, and Keith looked back to him. His eyes practically bugged out in shock. “What? No way.” He shook his head fervently. “You’re not ordering takeout on  _ thanksgiving _ , Keith.”

Keith scrunched up his face. “Well I’m  _ not  _ eating Shiro’s cooking—we both learned ages ago that he can’t be trusted in a kitchen. Besides, it’s not even thanksgiving up here, what does it matter?”

“Did you celebrate it in October?”

“Well, no—”

“Keith you can’t—you’ve got to celebrate  _ one  _ of them.” He sat up on his knees, clapping his hands with finality. “Alright. Executive decision time: you guys’re having a thanksgiving dinner with me and my family. Whenever you and Shiro are free, just give us… okay give us a week’s notice, ‘cause my mama’s going to need time to prep.”

He shook his head. “Lance, you don’t have to. I wouldn’t want to put your parents out of their way.”

Lance scoffed. “Are you kidding? My mom—when she finds out about this—she’s going to be telling everyone at church about how her son is friends with  _ the  _ Keith Kogane. And when she finds out about your abysmal thanksgiving plans, she’ll practically be begging me to invite you guys over. Figure I’d save her the time.” He accented the last phrase with a devious smirk, and Keith’s insides flipped.

“I—” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “ _ Ask them _ first at least, then tell me what they say.”

Lance’s smirk grew into a grin, despite another cough racking through his lungs, and he pushed to stand. “Atta boy. Well I gotta go drown myself in cough syrup, you want anything from the kitchen?”

The tack in Keith’s mouth suddenly came to the forefront of his consciousness. “Actually, could you get me a water?”

Lance nodded, pacing briskly outwards towards his goal, until he was about halfway through the doorway, and he froze, spinning on his heel with a horrified realisation on his face. “Your Gatorade!”

Keith blinked. “It’s alright, you don’t—”

Lance had already moved on, hitting the main floor with a resounding thud after skipping a handful of steps on the way down. “I didn’t forget—I’ll be right back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always change ur tires to snows. Unless u like… don’t live in places that get actual winters. But if u do, pls change ur tires so u don’t spin out in front of me. I’m just tryna get home to kiss my dog and cry myself to sleep who are u to deny me that
> 
> Also the Cakes thing is a reference to Mike Babcock calling Timothy Liljegren “Lilypad.” How can you not love that. And u know I had to include my fave boy Jackson (he’s a bicon who doesn’t even know it himself yet just fyi, you know I’d never make one of my faves a Str8)
> 
> (also I wanna make it clear: I’m not opposed to Korean Keith hcs at all--that line was just a tiny bit of salt for one specific Keith hc post I saw that basically equivalated all east asian nationalities which was Uncool imo. Keep headcanoning by all means!!! but always try n be respeccful to other, real people’s cultures with how u go about it <3)
> 
> While I can’t authenticate the total veracity of the Spanish here, I can speak to the authenticity of the code-switching and multilingual speech. I incorporated a fun little feature of language mixing in the dialogue for shits, so like idk wanted to just call that out. Language is fun guys I’m tellin u
> 
> Halso if u ever wondered what you call a regular flight of stairs now u know. Fanfic makes u ask Google some pretty pointless questions I;ll tell u that.
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/) Next week's thanksgiving at the McClains' (and maybe mine??? Or I think that's in two weeks, I'm so bad at keeping track of time OTL)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** He threw the convenience store’s door open with no preamble, heading straight towards the counter. Lance was hunched over his stool as always, head propped up against his chin as a textbook sat open and forgotten by his elbow, his open laptop sitting in front of his eyes. As soon as he heard the door open he picked his head up curiously, and his face fell when he recognised Keith.
> 
> “Oh my god,” he breathed, the scrape of his stool beneath him nearly drowning out the words as he rushed to his feet, rounding the counter without once lifting his eyes off Keith. Keith threw his bag to the floor, watching it slide to a stop a few feet away as Lance approached in his peripheral vision.
> 
> Keith felt warm hands caress his jawline, and he froze.
> 
> (oohhhh this chapter’s a good one. BOI WE OUT HERE GETTIN ANGST!!!)


	5. F Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In small increments, Lance and Keith learn to open up. 
> 
> The McClain’s host a special Brogane Thanksgiving dinner. Later, Keith gets himself in a bit of trouble and a world of hurt on the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI SO I’M BOOBOO THE CONSISTENT FOOL. I wanna give a formal apology for what I’ve done to all your poor cerulean orbs in last week’s preview for this chapter, where I completely forgot to edit the phrase “head propped up against his chin” to “chin propped up on his hand.” The chapter previews are always copypastes from scenes that aren’t completely edited, and while I often alter the phrasing so it flows a bit better as a standalone teaser, that just completely flew under the radar. I’m leaving it up as a monument to both my inattentivity and my laziness. Pls feel free to point and laugh bjgjkg. I don’t even know how that made it through two rounds of editing without being changed but this is another of my crosses to bear.
> 
> Also sorry the chap’s late, I worked late last night and there was a hockey game on. It’s only preseason bUT WE WON 6-2 SOOOO
> 
> N e how who’s ready for some plot??? I mean there’s been plot before but this shit’s Plot. Grade A, hot from the oven, all that shit. The story picks up from here, we’re gettin into Real Shit from now on kiddos
> 
> A bit of a spoiler, but the title’s moreso a warning than anything else: this chapter contains a homophobic slur, used explicitly when a character relays the story of being called that behind the scenes. The use of the word by the perpetrator of the homophobia is expressly left out, as while I thought it important to acknowledge the very real discrimination LGBTQ+ people still face, I didn’t want to give homophobia power over the narrative, rather handing the power over to the representation of LGBTQ+ in the story.
> 
> If you’re looking into further reading on the subject (and in all fairness to you……. ur most likely not lmao,) there was an article I consulted for this chapter, entitled “Guys are just homophobic: Rethinking adolescent homophobia and sexuality” by C.J. Pascoe in _New Sexuality Studies_. [Here’s a link to the article from Pascoe’s own website.](http://docs.wixstatic.com/ugd/7f79ca_f08be21d55ff4196b2040309d9faecc1.pdf)
> 
> Furthermore, there’s a bit of violence in the upcoming scene, one notch above where a standard hockey fight would lay.
> 
> For both of these sections, I’ve marked (TW - [trigger]) and (TW ends) if u wanna skip em.

_ Meet the McClain’s: Round Two _ went solidly better than the first time around. After the initial awkwardness that arose when Lance’s dad offered his hand for Shiro to shake, then subsequently noticed his prosthesis (a little game the two brothers had affectionately dubbed ‘Shake or No Shake’ years ago,) there hadn’t been so much as a lull in conversation—Shiro being a natural charmer, Mr. and Mrs. McClain being more than welcoming, and Lance being… well,  _ Lance _ , making it easy.

It turned out that a love of hockey wasn’t the only thing that the families bonded over; Shiro and Robert were currently having an avid discussion over the possibility of extraplanetary travel, the two of them sharing a common scholarly background in engineering. Maria—Lance’s mother, that is—steepled her hands beneath her chin as she listened in, translating impossibly difficult English words into effortless Spanish every time that her husband seemed stumped by Shiro’s vocabulary.

“Lance,” she glanced at her son sidelong, “could you clear the table?” He immediately stood, starting with his own plate and cutlery without further prompting.

“Here,” Keith stood at his side, quickly collecting his own dishes, “let me help.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Maria vocalised her protests, leaning forward to catch his eye. “Keith, no! You’re a guest, please sit down.” She waved him down with a hand that nearly hit her son’s when he reached over for her plate.

Keith shook his head. “I insist; it’s the least I could do.”

“It’s all good, man.” When Lance made to collect his plate, Keith pushed away his hand in protest.

“Stop—c’mon Lance,  _ please  _ let me help.” He looked into Lance’s eyes in earnest, and after a brief hold-up he saw the resolve break somewhere in that deep blue.

With a sigh, his shoulders sagged, and he turned to address his mom. “Well if he insists.”

She beamed at him. “Such a sweet boy—Lance, why can’t you be more like him?”

Keith breathed a chuckle, while Lance huffed a very exasperated “ _ Mom _ !”, halting his ministrations momentarily to shoot her a pained look. Keith then grabbed Shiro’s and Robert’s plates, the two of them still rapt in conversation and hardly noticing him, then carried his haul towards the kitchen, Lance following quickly on his heels.

“So how do you feel about being adopted twice?” Lance slipped past Keith to beat him to the sink (and Keith didn’t know if Lance did those sorts of things intentionally or not, but the competitive streak in Keith made him so  _ mad  _ every time he did,) setting his plates down on the counter before reaching out for Keith’s. “‘Cause from the looks of it, my parents are already signing the papers.”

And because Keith’s petty, he pointedly ignored Lance’s beckoning hands, placing his own directly in the sink and starting to rinse, masking a smug smirk because, again, did Lance even know this was a contest? “I like them, they’re fun—” _like you_ “—and sweet—” _again,_ _like you_.

Lance reached below the counter, unlatching the dishwasher and pulling out the empty bottom rack. “You guys should come over again soon—I mean, if Shiro’s as bad at cooking as you guys make him out to be—”

“He is,” Keith didn’t hesitate to answer.

He laughed. “Well then, if you ever get a hankering for a home-cooked meal but you don’t have the time to fly to Arizona, we’re always here.”

Keith shook the dripping water off his first plate, then handed it over to be loaded in the dishrack. “Thanks.”

They worked silently for about a minute, the only sounds being the scrape of dish-on-dish, the intermittent running of water through the pipes, the conversation a room over, and the ‘thanks’ that Lance mumbled every time Keith handed over a dish.

“Do you miss home?” Lance suddenly asked, breaking the peaceable silence of Keith rinsing a handful of forks.

Keith’s mind was a bit slow to start up and process the question after minutes of working on mindless autopilot. “Pretty loaded question to ask me when it’s below freezing outside.” He shut the tap.

Lance barked out a laugh, plucking the now-rinsed forks out of Keith’s hovering grip, prompting the latter to hide a blush under his bangs. “Alright, fair enough. My parents feel the same way every winter too.”

“Missing Cuba?”

He shrugged. “Missing the warmth. Missing… well, all the good stuff.” He gave Keith a small smile, the crinkle in his eyes accentuated by the warm light above the kitchen sink. “You?”

Keith swallowed heavily, trying to find his voice when Lance so conveniently stole it without even trying. “I miss my parents,” he murmured, feeling himself wince involuntarily, the words hitting a bit harder than anticipated when he spoke them aloud. Lance’s eyebrows gave a sympathetic bow in kind. “I talk to them still—we call them every week, so…”

“But it’s not the same as being there, I get it; you can’t get a hug over the phone. Anything else?”

Keith shook his head, returning his attention to the butter knives yet to be rinsed. “I have a lot of bad memories down there,” he explained, shuffling the knives in his grip so they could all get equally rinsed under the spray.

Growing up without his mom, losing his dad, fights, suspensions, Shiro’s deployment, more suspensions…

“More bad than good.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “Then maybe this can be your fresh start. You can make new memories here. Better ones.”

Keith shut the tap off, returning Lance’s encouraging smile with one of his own. “I think I’ve already started.” He offered up his handful of cutlery, which Lance was quick to accept.

* * *

 

In all fairness to Keith, he’d hardly realised himself what was happening until he collided with the other player. Or maybe that wasn’t exactly right. Keith knew what was he was doing as it was happening, but it was more like he was a passive bystander to himself, like he was merely going through the motions as his anger took control of his skates, shooting himself across the ice and charging him into the white jersey, charging them both into the boards.

It was far from the first time his rage had taken over. As much as people pretended fighting was no longer an integral part of hockey—certainly for a player as talented as Keith—he knew better than them. It doesn’t matter who you are, on the ice you  _ don’t  _ let anyone push you around. And if they try to, you make them pay.

(TW - violence)

He heard a sickening crunch, felt himself bounce back as the player before him crumpled onto the ground. His skates turned out, halting his backwards slide and giving him enough leverage on the ice to jump back into the fight, stick and gloves thrown aside to liberate both hands in time to grab a handful of collar. A snarl was ripped from his throat as the other hand drew back in a fist, and he threw a punch at his face. He threw another. He lost count at how many unretaliated hits he landed on his limp opponent before being yanked back by the scruff of his collar. Searing pain blossomed from his jaw with a resounding crack, and his helmet was jarred off his head.

The blow centred him, brought him back to his own body. His skates staggered beneath him as he tried to regain his bearings—the stadium lights were suddenly far too bright, practically blinding as he contended with the sharp throb. He was given less than a moment before another hit landed, the ache in his eyes sharpening tenfold as a fist collided with his nose. He forced his eyes open and pulled back a fist, the other hand grabbing at the arm that held him fast, snarling into the face of the man who was pulling back for his third blow.

Keith had been in his fair share of fights, and he knew when he was outmatched. Nonetheless, he bore his teeth, feeling slick warmth trickle off his upper lip and into his mouth, and threw everything he could into his right hook. The weak collision that resulted hardly seemed to register on the other’s expression, and did nothing to slow his fist from colliding front-and-centre with Keith’s face.

The resulting  _ snap! _ resounded in his skull, and it was all Keith could do to prevent himself from crying out as he felt his front teeth cave in, bouncing off his lower lip and tumbling onto the ice.

Keith’s rescued by a blur of blue colliding into his adversary, the fingers on the front of his jersey untangling messily and leaving Keith staggering on his skates to remain upright. His vision is swimming, his mind is racing, adrenaline pumping through his blood and blood pouring down his face. He sees another white jersey join the fray brewing before him in a mass of bodies, and he’s ready to jump on them before he’s grabbed around the midsection by a pair of strong arms clad in black-and-white stripes.

(TW ends)

“That’s  _ enough _ , kid,” a gruff voice grunts into his ear. When he tries to struggle, it picks up again. “You’re only making it worse—do yourself a favour and know when to quit.”

_ Do  _ yourself  _ a favour, and quit _ . Keith would laugh if that thought didn’t sicken him. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ice as the rest of the refs—aided by a few players—broke up the remainder of the spat, distancing themselves from the still-unmoving heap that had been its epicentre. His skates began to glide backwards as he was roughly pulled away.

“You’re out,” was the only explanation he was given. 

They bypassed the penalty boxes, going straight to the bench. By that time, Keith had found his feet again, skated himself under his own power, and the hands around him let go, let him climb behind the boards. He kept his head bowed as he passed his team, eyes trained on the blood dribbling down the white maple leaf crest on his chest as he distantly heard Coach Stills’s voice mingle with the roar of the crowd and in his ears. He wondered if Coach was talking to him. He was thankful he hadn’t heard, if that were the case.

He went down the tunnel, and the sounds quickly grew muffled. The pounding in his head eased the slightest bit in the darkness, and he almost let go a sigh of relief before a white towel popped out of nowhere into his field of vision, held up in offering. He looked over his shoulder to find a trainer, hot on his heels, quirking a brow at him as she waited for him to take the towel from her.

He did, accepting it with a nod before balling it up in a hand and holding it up to his face, doing the best he could to cover every place the blood poured out of. With that, she overtook him, leading the way with periodical glances over her shoulder to make sure Keith was still following.

By the time they’d reached the back room, Keith sitting up on the table as she tended to the dog’s breakfast his face now was, the adrenaline of the fight had worn off. The reality of the situation was beginning to settle in, as was the pain.

Everything hurt, the ache cresting with every throb of blood pumping from his still-pounding heart. He was acutely aware of how soft his toothless gums were under his tongue, wondered at the angle of his nose now that tissues had been stuffed in both nostrils to stem the bleeding, and felt the rawness of his knuckles now that they were no longer colliding against bone and muscle.

He’d lost control. He’d boarded another player—he’d knocked him  _ unconscious  _ in one hit—and started a brawl that did  _ god knows _ what else, collaterally. They’d kicked him off the ice, and probably the game, all because of one stupid choice—one  _ fucking  _ word—and because Keith just couldn’t let things go.

“One more stitch, keep breathing,” his trainer muttered distractedly, eyes still trained on the work she was doing to suture Keith’s upper lip.

Keith realised belatedly that his grip had tightened on the edge of the bench, nails digging into the metal underside. He rolled the tension out of his shoulders and willed his grip to loosen, doing good on her instructions and breathing.  _ Deep breath in, hold it, then slowly let it go _ . Just like his father had taught him—like Shiro’s daily ‘mindfulness reminders’—to control his temper.

_ In… out. In _ —

“Is Kogane done?” He turned reflexively to the presence of a new voice, a tug on his lip keeping him from going too far. Someone with a clipboard in their hand and a headset over their buzzcut leaned in the doorway, glancing between Keith and the trainer. “Stills wants him in the changeroom, ASAP.”

“Just wrapping up,” the trainer responded, “let me tie off this stitch.”

* * *

 

‘Clipboard-buzzcut’ led him back at a brisk pace, Keith having trouble keeping up with them, despite a near foot of advantage in height while dressed. He lamented the fact that he didn’t know their name, but he thought it just as well. Big star Keith Kogane can’t even be bothered to learn other people’s fucking  _ names _ , yet another reason to hate himself.

They stood aside once they reached the changeroom door, motioning with a sweeping gesture of their free arm, as if to bid him a final adieu—or maybe that was Keith’s mind exaggerating things. Whatever it was, it certainly felt like they were gesturing him in the direction of his certain doom.

He bit his tongue, not allowing himself a moment to steel himself for fear that he’d never build the courage to move, and pressed onwards into the room. He winced a bit as he adjusted to the much brighter lights, eyes swooping across the circular room and taking in the general consensus of his teammates’ reactions to his entrance. Most of what Keith had gleaned was despair, with a touch of carefully constructed impassivity, and he knew from that alone that he ought not ask what the score currently was.

Coach Stills stood to his right, a few paces in from the door. His mask was stoic and unyielding, arms folded tightly against his chest, eyes following Keith with the air of a predator waiting to strike.

“Sit.” He pointed to Keith’s vacated spot on the bench, and Keith took the long journey across the room to it, the clomp of his footfalls seeming to echo in the silence around him. 

His ass was barely on the seat before Stills erupted.

“What the fuck was that?” He spat, and Keith dropped his eyes to the floor, knowing he was being addressed, hearing Stills’s footsteps as he drew nearer. “ _ Look at me _ , Keith. Be man enough to face this.”

It was a sharp hit to his pride. It was a cold hand gripping at his insides, fingers digging in and  _ turning _ . He snapped his eyes up to meet Stills’s, anger contorting his already fucked-up face into something uglier.

“That was thug  _ bullshit _ ,” he said before Keith could answer. “I don’t care who the fuck you think you are, kid. If you want to keep playing for this team, I suggest you learn your place.”

“I was  _ defending  _ myself,” Keith argued, the lisp resulting from his tooth gap making the assertion sound weak, but he stuck his chin out defiantly to compensate.

“Larksson was facing away from you, Kogane! His guard was down—‘ _ defending _ yourself,’” he scoffed.

Keith thrust a hand out in demonstration, at nothing in particular. “He was chirping me, Coach—”

“Who gives a damn?” He interrupted. “I don’t care if he said he fucked your mother, you could’ve ended his  _ career  _ tonight with a hit like that! Do you really want that on your conscience?” Keith inhaled, ready to retort. Stills shook his head, unfurling a hand to gesture him onward. “Well come on, let’s hear it—what did he say that was worth  _ that _ , Keith?”

“He—” Keith heard the crack in his voice, heard his confidence falter.

He couldn’t say it. Stills—the whole  _ team _ —couldn’t know what had made him lose it  _ that  _ bad. If they knew, then they’d  _ know _ . He clamped his mouth shut, feeling tears sting in the corner of his eyes as his jaw ached from the act. He tore his gaze away, glaring at a spot on the floor.

Stills huffed an unamused laugh. “Make no mistake: you’re not special, Kogane. You play by the same rules as everyone else, and you leave that delinquent  _ bullshit  _ back in the amateur leagues.”

He could feel his breath starting to shake, and he reminded himself to breathe, shutting his eyes so tightly it was painful.  _ In… then out. Count down from ten. Come on, Keith, hold it together. Toughen the fuck up _ .

It must’ve worked, because Stills didn’t lighten up. “Pack your shit. You’re out of the game, and you’re out of the road trip—I don’t give a fuck if they suspend you for less. Maybe then, you’ll learn your lesson.” With that, he heard Stills stomp away, the slam of the door echoing in his wake.

At the sound, Keith jolted into motion, starting with tugging at his laces, throwing his skates off. Around him, the tableau of his other teammates unfroze, and he heard someone across the room begin a pep-talk for the team. Keith tore off his jersey once his skates had been handled, his head kept down and barely registering who was speaking and what he was saying. He was rallying the team for the third period, so he obviously wasn’t addressing Keith.

_ Ten, nine, eight… Just get out. Fuck this place. Get anywhere but here. _

Whoever was speaking was halfway through saying something when Keith, finally back in his sweats, roughly yanked his bag off the bench. The sentence faltered momentarily, and Keith felt every pair of eyes in the room on the back of his head. He made sure to slam the door behind him, shutting himself off from those prying eyes, and hurried his pace out the room, down the halls. He hung his head as his breath became ragged—from his pace, he assured himself.

_ One, two, three, god it fucking hurts, just get to your car _ . His mind cycled through these three thoughts his whole way down, his feet carrying him on autopilot as he focused all of his energy on keeping it under wraps long enough until he knew he was alone.

It felt like a year had passed. It felt like only a moment. Somehow in that time, though, Keith made it to his car.

_ Red _ , he reminded himself—grounded himself.  _ My car is red _ . Shiro had argued against the colour, stating that red paint made insurance more expensive. Keith had argued back that he could afford it, and thus the matter was settled.

He tossed his bag over the console onto the passenger’s seat, sliding into the driver’s side. The door slammed shut behind him. He’d held onto his breath for a second. Then two. He didn’t make it to three.

“Fuck this,” he growled, slamming an already sore fist into his door. “Fuck  _ all  _ of this.” He turned the car over, yanking the gear shift with an unnecessary amount of force and hearing the gears grind in his haste to get out.

And if he  _ did  _ cry, at least no one else was there to see it.

* * *

 

By the time he’d made it home, he’d figured out that he didn’t have the guts to face Shiro’s disappointment right now. He was still too incensed; he wasn’t sorry enough yet. Still, he realised that he could hardly stew in his car until he calmed down, so he blew a deep sigh, heaved his bag over with a grunt, then stepped out of his car, kicking the door shut behind him.

He realised with a guilty sting where his feet were taking him long before he got there—before he’d even committed too far to change course and save face. But as raw as his emotions were, he knew he couldn’t deny what he felt right now—couldn’t stop his heart from searching out the only person he thought he could bear to see at the moment.

He threw the convenience store’s door open with no preamble, heading straight towards the counter. Lance was hunched over his stool as always, chin propped up on his hand as a textbook sat open and forgotten by his elbow, his laptop positioned in front of his half-lidded eyes. As soon as he heard the door open he picked his head up curiously, and his face fell when he recognised Keith.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, the scrape of his stool beneath him nearly drowning out the words as he rushed to his feet, rounding the counter without once lifting his eyes off Keith. Keith threw his bag to the floor, watching it slide to a stop a few feet away as Lance approached in his peripheral vision.

Keith felt warm hands caress his jawline, and he froze. Fingers gently guided him to face straight and he complied instantly, unquestioningly. His stomach fluttered when his eyes landed on Lance’s, deep blue flicking this way and that as he took it all in, brow pinched and teeth worrying at his lower lip all the while. The feeling curdled as he recognised what he was doing— _ how _ he was observing Lance in the moment.

“Keith,” he admonished softly, fingers of one hand sliding below his chin to tilt it up.

Keith obliged, baring his missing teeth to give Lance the full run-down of his injuries. When he landed on that discovery, the colour drained from his face, gaze dragging slowly up to meet Keith’s. His pride gave a little swell at the reaction, closing his mouth now that he was satisfied Lance’d gotten an eyeful.

“Does it hurt?” He whispered, gaze falling back down as his thumbs traced gentle semicircles on Keith’s cheeks. He didn’t even seem to be aware that he was doing it— _ maybe it was self-soothing _ , he reasoned. In any case, it sent equal jolts of pleasure and shame through him with every stroke.

Keith shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve had worse.” It was a lie, and he knew it. But he needed it right then. As stupid as it was, he wanted Lance to think he was cool. “Is—uh, d’you think my nose is broken?” And just like that, the cool factor’s gone. He heard it in the waver of his voice.

Lance ducked momentarily, scrutinising his nostrils, then popped back up to full height, wearing an almost pained smile. “Looks alright to me. Or uh… not  _ alright _ , per se, but not crooked. That’s got to count for something.” He looked down at his hands, then snatched them back, holding them against his chest. “Sorry. Why don’t I—” he spun on his heel, taking an aisle down towards the freezers. “Let me get you some ice.”

Keith wanted to say that he didn’t need it, wanted Lance to put his hands back where they were, but he was already at the freezer, fishing out a pack of frozen peas and waving them triumphantly at Keith. 

“Thanks,” he said instead, waiting patiently at the end of the aisle until Lance returned and handed him the bag.

“Guess we won’t be able to sell those anymore,” he lamented, busting out a light jog as he went towards the back room. Keith lifted the bag to the bridge of his nose, stifling a pained groan in his throat. “Or maybe you could sign ‘em,” he called out from the back, returning with a stool tucked under his arm, “and we could sell ‘em for, like, ten times the price.” He set the stool down next to his, behind the counter, and hopped back up on his perch, patting the other seat invitingly.

Keith lowered the bag and rounded the counter, bracing a hand on it to help himself up. He hooked his ankles around the legs of the stool, flexing them to cope with the sting of the ice he brought back between his eyes, and releasing a relieved breath when the pain subsided. Faintly, he could hear the unmistakable slash of skates on ice and the play-by-play announcers calling a hockey game coming from the speakers of Lance’s laptop.

“What’s the score?” He nodded blindly in the general direction of the sound.

Lance made an uncertain noise at the back of his throat. “I don’t think you want to know…”

“Lance.”

After a hesitation, he sighed a despondent, “Four-nil.”

Keith made to bite his tongue, but it merely passed through the gap his front teeth left. He let the hand holding the peas fall to his lap, and dropped his head into his other hand, fingertips rubbing circles into his temple. “Right.”

“Keith,” Lance breathed into the silence hanging around them, “what the hell  _ happened  _ out there?”

He huffed, lifting his head from his hand and tossing the makeshift ice pack to the counter. “I lost control. I’m a thug, after all—a brainless shitstarter. That’s what everyone thinks, right?”

He shook his head. “Don’t say that—”

“Why not?” Keith snapped. “Isn’t it true? I  _ am _ .”

Lance furrowed his brow, pounding a fist down on the table. “Dammit, Keith—I  _ know  _ you, and whatever the hell  _ that  _ was, that’s not the kind of player you are! He  _ said  _ something to you—I saw it—and the next moment you’re charging him into the boards and laying into him—and that’s  _ not you _ ,” he reiterated, his voice softening as he leaned closer. “ _ You _ don’t do that.”

Keith swallowed heavily, tearing his gaze away from Lance’s and boring it into the counter instead. His eyes stung, and he grimaced—he  _ wasn’t  _ about to cry again.

“Whatever happened—”

(TW - slur)

“He called me a faggot.” He hates the quaver in his voice, feels incriminated by it. Lance straightened in his seat, and Keith’s fingernails dug painful crescents into his palms, a failed attempt to keep himself balanced. “He said ‘keep shooting like a faggot, and they’ll send you down to the minors where you belong.’”

(TW ends)

He practically chokes on the word as it rises, acrid and burning, from his throat. He wishes for all the world that Lance would say  _ something _ , but the other had become uncharacteristically mute.

“I’m not gay,” Keith followed up immediately.

_ Liar _ , he cursed himself.  _ Wimp. Too scared to even tell my _ best friend _ the truth _ . He has every intention at leaving it at that, but—

“But would it be so bad if I was?” He looked up to Lance, eyes pleading. Lance’s eyes went wide, and he continued. “Would it  _ really _ be so fucking bad? Would it mean I didn’t deserve to play—that all the years of hard work and sacrifice I put in meant nothing,  _ just  _ because of that?”

Lance’s brow furrowed in sympathy, eyes shimmering in the light as he leaned back in. Keith begged himself to break eye contact, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away, gaze lost in the depths of crystalline blue. “Of course not,” he assured softly.

“I don’t know why I lost it. It’s not the first time I’ve been called… that it’s happened. But it’s just—” He clenched his fists. “This isn’t supposed to happen anymore, right? It’s bullshit—the league and the players all spout this ‘You Can Play’ horseshit, then you get on the ice and they say it’s the heat of the moment, that they don’t mean it—and the fuckers  _ keep  _ getting away with it, and  _ I’m  _ the one getting in trouble for doing something about it. No  _ wonder  _ no one wants to come out in this league; we’re all talk and no action.”

Lance nodded, his eyes falling to his hands in his lap. “I know what you mean. It feels like shit to be on the receiving end of that word.” He started picking at his nails. “‘Course in my case, they’re right.”

“What?” He straightened, shaking his head. “Lance, don’t say that—”

“No, I mean—” he looked up, a small smile fighting to stay on his lips “—I’m bi, Keith. I like guys.”

He felt his expression go slack. “Oh.”

Lance shrugged, a tad too stiff for the casual look he was going for. “Still, not fun to be walking down the street, holding your date’s hand, and have some prick shout it out to you from his car. Like what, we didn’t figure it out already?” He laughed, trying to pass it off as a joke.

Keith didn’t find it funny. “I thought stuff that didn’t happen up here.”

“Canada’s not exactly the land of sunshine and rainbows everyone seems to think it is. We’re not as bad as most places—and Toronto’s better than a lot of other cities—but it happens.”

“I’m sorry.”

He snorted. “What’re  _ you  _ sorry for? You knocked out a homophobe on live TV. That makes you, like, straight ally  _ numero uno _ in my books, buddy.” He pat Keith’s knee affectionately, holding it there for a moment. After a brief silence, the hand slid off, and he held his palm up. “Hey, give me your phone.”

Keith quirked an eyebrow, reaching for it in his front pocket nonetheless. “Why?”

Lance wasted no time snatching it from Keith’s hand, swiping it open before furrowing his brow, turning it towards Keith to tap in the password. “Because someone’s got to keep your social media updated, dummy, and so far you’ve been doing an  _ awful  _ job.”

They both leaned back in their chairs once the phone was unlocked, Lance swiping and tapping a few times, then holding up the phone to take a photo. “Say hi to Snapchat, Keith.” Keith frowned, and after a moment Lance let the phone drop in favour of looking directly at him. “C’mon dude, you’ve got to pose.”

“Like what?”

Lance flourished his free hand, lifting the phone in the other once more. “I don’t know, just show off your fucked-up face. Give me  _ gritty _ , Keith.”

He rolled his eyes with a snort, then pulled his face into a sneer, baring his tongue and flipping the camera off.

“Great,” Lance praised, “now give me PG-13—you’ve got  _ kids _ looking up to you, asshole.”

The expression fell away momentarily with a huff of laughter, then he resumed the position, switching to a hook-’em-horns sign instead.

“Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like 2 formally apolloguys for going from fluff to a direct suckerpunch of angst. But that’s what u guys r here for; I manipulate ur emotions bc I Care
> 
> In editing this chapter, I realise that there’s a looooooot of cursing in the locker room. I hope ppl know that I modelled Stills’s dialogue off of footage of other NHL coaches from docuseries produced for the NHL (is there a plural for docuseries??? I hate english sm lol,) and I wasn’t just doing it to ramp up angst or make this whump for Keith.
> 
> Next chapter’s fluff. Definitely not set-up for the main angst hidden in fluff. Not sure what led you to believe that but it’s definitely only just fluff. I don’t even write angst come on people *looks at my tags* _oh wait fuc--_
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** (mentions of underage drinking)
> 
> Keith snorted, aborting it halfway through when strong arms wrapped around his midsection, pulling him into a swaying mass of warmth.
> 
> “ _Tension, between us just like picket fences_ ,” Lance’s voice was light, sweet as honey, breathed in soft puffs of air against Keith’s shoulder as he sang, “ _you’ve got issues that I won’t mention for now, ‘cause we’re falling apart_ …” He shimmied his shoulders briskly to the familiar faux-clap hook, jostling Keith along with him.
> 
> “ _Jeez_ ,” he was going for a chuckle, but it came out a bit more ‘breathless wheeze’ than he’d planned, “you get touchy when you drink, don’t you?”
> 
> (Yes, I know it’s Drake. I’m not happy about it either, given the recent news. I will be addressing it in next week’s ANs)


	6. Passionfruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith’s suspension runs its course, and he celebrates its end in good company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: I can’t write a single fanfic without dancing. Someone please tell me why
> 
> Warning for underage drinking in this fic--and this time I can’t blame it on America’s legal drinking age because it’s not set in the states. You’d never guess I’m basically teetotaler from my fic. Emetophobes: no vomiting, ur all good <3
> 
> Aaand because I promised I would: I wanna say outright that I’m not happy with the shit Drake’s pulling w Millie Bobby Brown. Ppl have come to his defence saying it’s innocent which, like, I’m not throwing accusations right now, but I’m going to say it doesn’t look really good or responsible, and the situation appears to have the potential to become something bad.
> 
> With all of that said, this chapter was written in July, well before this sort of news about Drake broke. It became a bit cumbersome to change the elements of this fic for something so minor, especially considering I didn’t give myself a whole lot of time to adjust it all with my update schedule. I want people to know that I wasn’t being ignorant to the situation, or dismissing the very real concerns that many people have raised about it.
> 
> Anyhow enough heavy shit because I’m sick and can only handle so much talking like an adult in the author’s notes. Acting mature is intensely off-brand for me, my apologies.
> 
> OH YE THE REGULAR SEASON STARTED THIS WEEK!!! Ppl are saying we played shit (I only caught the back half of the game bc of work) but I’m cool because we won so B)
> 
> Btw in case anyone’s thinking about getting into hockey but is feeling a little daunted, I’d highly recommend watching [Steve Dangle on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/user/SteveDangle) He’s a hockey vlogger who posts a video after every Leafs game to discuss what happened in and around the game, and when I was first really getting into the team watching his videos is basically how I learned about the leafs and the rules of hockey in general. He’s also employed by Sportsnet and works with the Leafs, so u know he’s legit. He’s also like a pretty nice dude and has dogs and loves his wife very much, so ye
> 
> Hockey terminology time
> 
> Empty netter: an empty net goal, AKA a goal scored when the opposing team’s goalie is out of the net. The goalie is usually pulled from the net when the team is down in goals and the last period is running out. It allows for six players to be in the offensive zone and increases the losing team’s chances of tying up the score.  
> Final frame: the third period
> 
> ETA: Hi again I know I posted this like three seconds ago but idgaf, I forgot to mention in the notes that Keith DOES have new front teeth. Please don't imagine Keith's still got a huge gap there. K I'm outtie smooches love u ppl by

**[New Message: Coach]**

**[Coach:** Hey Keith. I want to say sorry for the comment I made about your mum. The guys told me that might be a sore spot for you. I hope there’s no hard feelings. **]**

**[Keith:** It’s fine, coach. No hard feelings **]**

**[Coach:** Good to hear **]**

**[Coach:** In the spirit of apologies, I was thinking you could give Larksson a call now that he’s back on his feet. **]**

Keith’s thumbs twitched over his keyboard, hesitation tensing in his shoulders. He let it go with a sigh.

**[Keith:** Sure thing. Send the number over **]**

“Uh-oh,” Shiro’s voice pulled Keith’s focus away, and he looked up when a toe jabbed at his knee. Shiro glanced meaningfully at the spot next to Keith on the couch, then at the legs stretched out along the coffee table that barred his access to it. With a huff, Keith retracted his legs to let Shiro shimmy through the tiny space. “What’d Lance say this time?”

“It’s not  _ Lance _ ,” he insisted, unsure if it was the implication that he was upset or that Lance was the only person he texted that left him exasperated, “it’s Stills.”

The couch next to him sunk as Shiro plopped down, the chips in the bowl he clutched to his chest jostling and nearly spilling out. “Is everything alright?”

“He wants me to call Larksson and apologise for wrecking his shit.”

“ _ Language _ ,” Shiro chided. “D’you need any help?”

Keith pursed his lips. “I think I know what to say, but I could always use the moral support. Mind standing by and making sure I actually say it?”

“‘Course,” he said, digging a hand in the bowl and scooping up an unhealthy amount of chips, crunching them loudly.

Keith’s phone pinged with a new message. “Ugh, no more chips ‘til I hang up.” He swiped it unlocked, sending Shiro a glare to convey that he was  _ being serious _ , then ringing up the number Stills had provided, bringing the phone to his ear.

Shiro, thankfully, had finished chewing by the time the ringing cut off, the “Hello?” on the other end sounding off clear as day in his ear.

“Hi. Stefan, right? It’s Keith,” he replied, clarifying, “Kogane,” after a moment.

Silence crackled on the other end for a half-beat. “Well, isn’t  _ that  _ a surprise,” he mused, the satisfaction in his voice palpable even over the phone.

Keith’s stomach clenched, and he glanced over at Shiro to remind himself what the mission was. “Yeah, listen. I-I heard you’re doing better.”

Larksson gave a noncommittal hum. “I bounce back quickly.”

_ Probably ‘cause you’ve got such a thick skull _ — “Good to know. I’m uh… I’m glad.” He took a deep breath and swallowed his pride. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did, and it’s got no place in the game today.”

He laughed. “Hey man, it’s all good—we all do shit in the heat of the moment that we regret later. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I did to piss you off—I don’t remember  _ anything _ that happened that night. You got me good, kid.”

Keith grit his teeth—Larksson had the luxury of forgetting the mistake  _ he  _ made, whereas Keith’s would be cemented in the sport and internet archives for years to come. “Right, well again I’m glad you’re doing alright—”

“Hey Keith?” He interrupted, and Keith did his best to hold in a frustrated growl. There was a knock on the door, and he drew his legs back in to let Shiro answer it. “A bit of advice: you can go far in this league, and that means you’ve got a huge-ass target on your back. Don’t jeopardise your future by throwing fists every time someone chirps you.”

He heard the door open, and he glanced over quickly, doing a double-take when he saw Lance peek his head in, a grin stretching across his face as he waved a six-pack in greeting to him—where the hell did he get  _ that  _ from?

_ Oh right, _ he mentally shook himself, _ I’m still on the phone _ . “I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.” Behind Lance, Hunk and Pidge slipped in, encumbered by pizza boxes and plastic bags brimming with snacks.

“Alright, cheers kid. And I hope the next time we face off, it’ll be under better circumstances.”

“Same here. Take care,” he didn’t wait to hear the response before he hung up, tossing his phone to the couch and pushing to his feet, pacing forward to meet them. “What’re you guys doing here?”

Lance scoffed, setting his handful down on the dining table, sidestepping to allow Pidge and Hunk to do the same. “Jeez, way to sound grateful. We’re here to celebrate! Tonight’s the last game in your suspension, and we’re havin’ a party,” he declared, as though it were self-evident.

“What’s— _ woah _ ,” the air was practically knocked out of Keith’s lungs as a pair of strong arms wrapped around his midsection, the ground falling out from underneath him. He glanced over to find Hunk on his side, the perpetrator of Keith’s new vertical repositioning, his cheek squishing into Keith’s shoulder.

“Lance told us what you did,” he explained, setting Keith back down on the floor after a tight squeeze.

Pidge treated his shoulder to a jovial punch on her way past him, a netbook tucked under her arm as she twisted on her heel, and walking backwards to the TV in the living room. “Lemme tell you, Keith, you made us three queers  _ very  _ proud of you that night.” She grinned at him.

He turned to Lance for an answer. He merely offered a shrug, clapping him on the shoulder firmly. “Your heroics couldn’t go underappreciated.” He nodded in the space over Keith’s shoulder. “Pidge and Hunk’re going to set up the TV to stream the game, and I brought snacks!” He lifted the hand from Keith’s shoulder to gesture to everything now covering their dining table.

“Lance,” Shiro’s tone edged on warning, picking up the sixer Lance brought in, “is this  _ beer _ ?”

“Yep!” He whirled on his heel and caught a glimpse of Shiro’s expression. “Er—no?”

“Lance.”

He threw his hands up defensively. “It’s all good, our drinking age is  _ way  _ lower than your guys’.”

He set the beers back down, hands going to his hips. “It’s nineteen. Are  _ any  _ of you nineteen?”

“Shiro,” Keith groaned—could his brother be cool  _ just  _ this once?

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Lance insisted, “Pidge doesn’t drink anyway, and Hunk’s parents are cool with it as long as he asks beforehand.”

“And yours?”

“Yeah yeah, they’ll say yes,” he pulled a bottle out and spun on his heel, sauntering in the direction of the couch, “as long as we tell ‘em it’s yours.”

“Nope.” Shiro grabbed him by the shoulder, halting his procession.

“C’mon Shiro,” Keith pleaded, “what difference does it make?”

“It’s  _ lying _ ,” he stated simply, like it even mattered.

“If I tell ‘em I got them from my brother they’ll  _ kill  _ me, and he’s  _ never  _ going to forgive me for snitching,” he protested, turning back to Shiro and flashing an obviously practised puppy-dog look.

Shiro held out for about two seconds, then sighed. “Fine. We’ll call them, and if they don’t ask where we got it from, I won’t say anything—but if they  _ do _ , I’m telling the truth. Hunk,” he waved him over from across the room, “why don’t you two come over here so we can do that?” Hunk nodded, pushing up from where he knelt next to Pidge on the floor.

“Hey,” Lance spoke up as Shiro put a hand to his back, directing him towards the front door, looking over his shoulder to watch Keith pluck a beer from the pack, “why aren’t you making Keith ask  _ your  _ parents?”

Keith snorted. “He knows I don’t wait for permission.”

“I know he won’t overdo it—Keith’s a one-drink-wonder.”

“ _ Shiro _ !” He hissed.

“Ooh,” Lance cooed, slipping out of Shiro’s grasp, keen eyes trained on Keith—behind him, Shiro sighed, electing to get Hunk squared away before he worked on wrangling Lance. “Pray tell.”

“I’m not a one-drink-wonder,” he scoffed, twisting the cap off his beer, “I just don’t drink much.”

“You’re a teetotaler?” Pidge piped up behind him. Keith shrugged in response—not really, but basically.

“A  _ what  _ now?” Lance sputtered.

“Means he doesn’t drink,” she explained, “which means that when he _does_ , it affects him more.”

He held up a finger. “Which is why I limit myself to one when I do.”

Across the room, Shiro leaned away from his cellphone to stage-whisper “ _ One-drink-wonder _ ,” and Keith retaliated by tossing his bottle cap in his direction.

“ _ Interesting _ …” Lance commented vaguely, stroking his chin in mock-contemplation.

“Stop.” Keith spun on his heel.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lance protested, hot on his tail.

Keith flopped on the couch. “I know what you’re thinking though, and it’s not going to happen.”

“We all do,” Pidge contributed. “Lance thinks so loud I can practically hear it from over here.”

He rolled his eyes, leaning back on the armrest next to Keith. “You’ve got to admit that you’re  _ curious _ , Keith.”

“I’m not.” He already had enough trouble keeping his impulse under control when he was sober, much less anything past buzzed.

“We can make it fun, like a drinking game! Take a drink every time—”

“Nope!” Shiro called from across the room. “That sounds an awful lot like peer pressure, Lance.” He waved his phone in the air, beckoning him over as he lets Hunk free.

Lance reluctantly obliged, but not before narrowing his eyes at Keith, giving him an ‘ _ I’m keeping my eye on you _ ’ gesture.

* * *

 

They had fun. The five of them packed into Shiro and Keith’s tiny living room area, Shiro claiming the reclining armchair early on and leaving the couch for the other four. Pidge had started the first period sprawled across the boys’ laps, but after Keith had leapt to his feet one too many times in the first five minutes—launching her into the coffee table—he’d been relegated to the floor, leaning back against Lance’s armrest and relinquishing the centre cushion to her.

Still, he’d hardly been the only one to let the excitement get the better of him. The whole game was spent switching between emphatic shouts at the television screen, wild gesticulations that sent popcorn and chips flying everywhere onto the carpet, and inane contests used to pass the time between commercial breaks and periods.

It had been a long time since Keith had watched a hockey game and been so invested—he wondered if he’d ever had this much  _ fun  _ watching one. Everyone involved provided a constant running commentary that built off of each other’s, and by the time they’d reached the midway point of the third period they’d all been convinced that they should be hired right away as the new play-by-play announcers.

And even when they lost—their fate sealed by an empty-netter in the last minute of the final frame—they all gleefully counted down the last ten seconds, erupting into cheers once the timer on Keith’s suspension ran out, the whole of them dogpiling him in a group hug that was suffocating in only the best of ways.

“Okay,” Lance wheezed into Keith’s shoulder, “I regret jumping at the chance to be the first to hug Keith—you guys are so  _ heavy _ .” He jabbed an elbow upwards at no one in particular. “Geroff, honest I’m going to yarf—”

“Right,” Keith declared (or did his best, at least, with his lungs as squished as they were,) “well I’m  _ not _ getting yarfed on tonight.” He nudged someone with a toe, and bit-by-bit the weight on his ribcage eased, ending with Lance’s slow rise to his elbows with a long and arduous groan. He forewent standing in favour of rolling off Keith, flopping down on his back and shutting his eyes.

“He’s a lazy drunk,” Hunk explained.

“Not drunk,” he protested, holding a finger up.

Keith chuckled, having to believe Lance—he’d only had two drinks, after all—but far from ever letting that come to be known. “He’s lazy  _ sober _ ,” he said instead, eliciting a scandalised gasp from Lance. He hopped up to his feet and let a hand out. “Need some help?”

Lance scoffed, opening his eyes. “Not from a traitor—I’ll get up when I want to.”

“Right,” Pidge stepped over him towards the front door, “well Hunk and I’ve got to run.”

“No,” Lance protested, “we’ve got to stay and clean up! It’s  _ polite _ .”

“Nuh-uh,” Hunk tutted, rounding the coffee table the other way in her pursuit, “we were supposed to catch the bus fifteen minutes ago, and I’m already going to be past curfew.”

“It’ll take Keith ‘n Shiro ages to get this cleaned by themselves.”

“Actually,” Shiro started, “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow, so I’m heading to bed right now.”

“I’m  _ driving  _ you to the airport,” Keith argued.

“And  _ you  _ get to sleep in once you get home, whereas  _ I’ve  _ got to deal with mom and dad the minute I land.” He retreated towards his bedroom, obviously closing off any further discussion on the matter— _ fucking oldest siblings _ , Keith thought, _ they always get their way _ . “‘Nite, you guys.”

“You’re all abandoning Keith in his time of need?”

“Hey, genius idea,” Pidge retorted, sliding her coat on, “why don’t you get off the floor and help him?”

“Forget it,” Keith replied, scooping up a pair of half-empty bowls and stepping over Lance towards the kitchen, “he’ll just complain all the while about having to clean his own mess.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance challenged, and Keith halted in the threshold of the kitchen, spinning around to watch him push up to his feet. Lance wavered a half-second once fully upright, before shaking his head and straightening out confidently. “How’s  _ this  _ for cleaning up my own mess?” He bent down and scooped up an armful of discarded bottles and cans, sticking his nose up self-righteously whilst strutting past Keith into the kitchen.

Hunk snorted, lowering his voice. “You’re welcome, Keith. G’nite.”

Keith smiled, tucking a bowl under his arm to wave them both off as they left out the door. “See you soon, guys.” Once the door softly shut behind them, he turned back, padding into the kitchen.

Lance stood before the sink, rinsing out every can and bottle one-by-one, then setting them down on the other side of the counter. He looked subdued, be it by the alcohol or the time of night, and Keith couldn’t help but think that it was a good look on him. He loved Lance when he was energetic, bouncing off the walls and speaking with an undertone of song. But he loved Lance like this too, shoulders eased and guard down, the sharp lines of his profile softened in the low light.

_ Wait _ , Keith’s feet stilled.  _ Did I just say I lo _ —

“Keith?” Lance turned to him, quirking an eyebrow in an almost amused expression. “You doin’ alright there?”

“Uh… yeah. Totally.” He swallowed, briskly finishing his journey to the counter, setting the bowls down next to the recycling Lance had yet to rinse.

“I get it: cleaning’s boring as  _ hell _ ,” he groaned, “I waste half the time spaced out, too.” He looked away from his work momentarily to flash Keith a boyish grin. “But hey, it’s not so bad when you’re in good company. Y’mind checking for any more cans and shit?”

“Sure.” After a moment’s too long of a hesitation, he tore his gaze off Lance and returned to the living room, scooping a the remaining discarded receptacles off the carpet before rounding back to Lance’s side—er, the kitchen, that is.

When he came back, Lance had his head tipped down, scrolling through his phone by his hip. When Keith set his haul down on the counter, he picked his head up. “Is it alright if I play some music? Helps me focus.”

Keith shrugged. “Just make sure it’s quiet; I don’t want Shiro getting pissy.”

“No promises.” With a press of his thumb, a slow song ebbed out of the speakers, and after turning it down a touch, he set his phone down on the counter and returned to work. Almost immediately he began humming softly along, and Keith knew it was only a matter of time before he was singing too, but he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by the thought—in fact, it brought a gentle smile to his lips.

He reached up to open the cabinet above his head, pulling out the bags of chips that had been poured half-out into the bowls a few hours ago, now shaking the dust and remnants back into them. Lance shut off the tap, leaning down to retrieve the recycling bin from under the sink and lining it up with the edge of the counter, pushing everything he’d just rinsed out into the bin.

“Thanks for staying.” Keith stacked the bowls together, sliding them into the sink before busying himself with wrapping the bags up. “Honestly, I probably would’ve left everything out if you didn’t.”

“Well you can’t do that—the ants aren’t worth it, trust me,” he chuckled, stowing the bin below once more. “But no, it’s all good. I, uh… I like hanging out with you. I mean, with  _ just  _ you—not that I don’t like hanging out all together, but—”

“It’s okay,” he smiled, “I like hanging out with just you too.”

Lance shuffled closer, affectionately conking their heads together before turning on the tap once more, the uppermost bowl filling with water as he squirted dish soap onto a sponge.

“Hey, you don’t have to do that.” He reached over to take it out of Lance’s hands.

He tsked, pulling away. “No no no, this is payback for thanksgiving.”

He rolled his eyes but relinquished, letting Lance start to scrub. “We’ll just put ‘em in the dishwasher.”

“These are too big to go in the dishwasher, and you know that. Now I’ve  _ got  _ this, Keith. You’ll have to trust me sooner or later.” He waved him off with a soapy hand, unwittingly flicking bubbles into Keith’s bangs. “Go. I’m  _ helping  _ you, not doing it all for you, bud.”

He ran a hand through his fringe, shaking out the soap. The sore fact of the matter was he really didn’t want to go—he didn’t care so much if he had to wait until Lance finished up in the kitchen and they moved on to the living room together, didn’t care if it took them all night to clean up and he didn’t have any sleep before making the early morning drive down to the airport—he wanted to stay right here. Wanted to watch Lance sway slowly to the beat of his music as he washed dirty dishes, eyes slipping more and more closed every passing minute.

He pulled himself away with an “Okay,” breathed into the still air between them, his feet dragging beneath him until he made it out of the kitchen. The resistance popped like a bubble once he passed the threshold, but the ache of his longing remained strong as ever. He drew a sigh that transformed into a yawn halfway through, stretching his arms over his head as he made his way back to the couch. He dropped onto it and collecting garbage from the floor, cushions, and table as he could reach them, piling them up in front of him.

_ I trust him _ , Keith reassured himself, only realising about a split second later that he’s done it—that he  _ needed  _ to, more precisely.  _ He doesn’t know _ , follows up next. _ He couldn’t know—because if he knew, why would he be asking me to trust him? Unless _ —he groaned, shutting his eyes and rubbing fingertips into them.

It’s a cyclical thought. A trap that his mind often falls into, a ruse to cover up the guilt he felt over this, as he and Lance grew closer. Because he knows Lance could be trusted with his secret, but could Keith be trusted not to ruin their friendship once he knew? Telling someone you’re gay and telling them you have feelings for them are two  _ very  _ different things. Lance’s two best friends were both queer, and he wasn’t dating either of them. Assuming Lance would want Keith in the same way as soon as he came out was presumptuous—reckless, even. It was an unnecessary risk for the chance of potential payoff. He trusted Lance, but he didn’t want to lose him.

Besides, Keith already knew he definitely wasn’t ready for a relationship. He might not have been telling his teammates the whole truth when they brought up the secret girlfriend thing, but it was no lie when he said he didn’t have the time for one. Hell, up until Lance, Keith was too busy to maintain  _ friendships _ , let alone a relationship. All of that was discounting the whole deal of him staying closeted, which wasn’t even a matter for discussion—he was not about to get into  _ that _ particular mess.

And thus the matter was settled. It didn’t matter to him if the affection was equally reciprocated. He cared about their friendship first and foremost; his more complicated feelings were secondary to that. He shut his eyes very tightly, took a deep breath to steel himself, then scooped up the garbage, standing up and striding towards the kitchen again.

He froze as soon as he caught sight of Lance, as Lance did with him—mid-pirouette, arms frozen over his head, and the surprise of being caught written all over his face. It melted into an embarrassed grin, and he dropped the arms in a swoop, rolling his head in sync in a movement far too co-ordinated and smooth for a guy as gangly as Lance.

“Drake?” Keith scoffed, sidling past Lance to deposit the trash under the sink, not really paying attention to whether or not they reached the bin—that was a problem for Later Keith, or Shiro. Hopefully Shiro. He recognised the song from hearing it on the radio, but never paid enough attention to be able to pinpoint the name.

“ _ Listen _ ,” Lance sang along to the first verse, pitch perfect but an octave up, “ _ seeing you got ritualistic _ —he’s six god, Keith. He’s all our dads.”

Keith snorted, aborting it halfway through when strong arms wrapped around his midsection, pulling him into a swaying mass of warmth. He held his breath, grappling with a sudden sensory overload at Lance being so unexpectedly close. Electricity sparked against every point of contact between them, Lance’s heart beating against Keith’s shoulder blade and his hair tickling at Keith’s chin, while the gentle back-and-forth rocking left Keith dizzy, hands scrabbling for purchase on Lance’s wrists.

“ _ Tension, between us just like picket fences _ ,” Lance’s voice was light, sweet as honey, breathed in soft puffs of air against Keith’s shoulder as he sang, “ _ you’ve got issues that I won’t mention for now, ‘cause we’re falling apart _ …” He shimmied his shoulders briskly to the familiar faux-clap hook, jostling Keith along with him.

“ _ Jeez _ ,” he was going for a chuckle, but it came out a bit more ‘breathless wheeze’ than he’d planned, “you get touchy when you drink, don’t you?”

He hummed his assent, every fibre of Keith’s body singing as it resounded through him, intense enough to necessitate him shutting his eyes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He turned to whisper in his ear, misjudging the distance and brushing his nose along the shell, and sending an all too unwelcome shock of pleasure through Keith. “I’m a lightweight, too.”

Deep breaths brought Keith back to centre, allowing him to formulate an answer. “Never would’ve guessed.”

“Hey.” He poked him in the stomach, turning to rest his cheek against Keith’s shoulder once more. “Tipsy Lance is a  _ delight  _ that very few people ever get to experience.”

“I should consider myself so lucky.”

“You  _ should _ .” His arms squeezed tighter. “Why aren’t you dancing, Keith?”

“I’m dancing,” he argued. It was more movement than what Keith usually quantified as such when he wasn’t alone, at the very least.

“Hardly, I’m doin’ all the work here! You’ve got to get  _ into  _ it.” He swayed his hips wide and slow in demonstration, and Keith practically had to bite his tongue to keep an admonishment at bay—because he had no doubt that Lance currently lacked the self-awareness to realise he was essentially grinding up against his ass.

“‘S hard to do when you’re squishing me,” he grumbled instead.

A beat of silence was followed by a soft, “Do you want me to stop?”

“What?” He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “No, no it’s fine.” He demonstrated as much by wrapping his arms over Lance’s—distantly aware of how this would’ve looked to any outsider, but if Lance wasn’t going to comment on it than neither would he. 

Lance’s posture relaxed against him once more. And for good measure—because he really was so gone for this boy—Keith started gently leaning into the sway, letting his head bob with the to-and-fro and humming along with whatever parts of the tune he’d managed to pick up.

He thinks he loves Lance like this the most: close enough to feel his every heartbeat, holding him steady, focused solely on Keith.

He loves Lance. He  _ trusts  _ Lance.

And if he loves Lance and trusts him too, he should be able to tell Lance anything, right? The people you love and trust deserve to know the truth… 

Right?

“Lance,” he whispered. No response. “Hey asshole,” he tried again, nudging him gently with an elbow, “d’you fall asleep?”

“I was  _ trying  _ to,” he whinged, “‘til someone decided—”

_ Buzz buzz! _

They both turned to Lance’s phone and froze, the music momentarily dimming as the notification came in. Lance’s arms slipped through Keith’s grasp as he went to check it out, and Keith suddenly grew very aware of the mid-January chill. The song abruptly shut off, Lance taking a brief moment to examine his phone before delivering the verdict to Keith.

“It’s Hunk,” he explained, lifting the phone in a quick gesture, “he and Pidge just got in. Shit man, it’s late.” He looked up to Keith now, giving an apologetic frown. “I didn’t even realise—and you’ve got to be up early tomorrow, and my mom’s going to be  _ pissed _ …”

“Go. You don’t want to make her any more mad, after all.”

He slid the phone in his pocket, looking over Keith’s shoulder and hesitating on his feet. “If there’s more to clean up—”

Keith waved him off. “It’s all done, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Lance swallowed, seeming to scrutinise something over Keith’s shoulder a half-second longer before he dropped his gaze, starting slowly towards the front door. “Alright.”

“Alright,” he echoed, waiting for Lance to pass him before following, their footsteps resounding through the peaceable silence of the condo.

Keith leaned against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself as he silently waited for Lance’s goodbye. Lance threw his winter coat on, and was in the middle of tugging on his boots when he said, “You’re sure you’re okay? Don’t need anything else before I go?”

He nodded, his voice needing a moment to build up to the lie. “Absolutely.”

Lance straightened, smiling softly. “Not even a hug?”

He laughed. “A hug, I can do.”

Lance wasted little time stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Keith’s shoulders. When Keith slid his arms around his waist and squeezed, he released a soft grunt, hiding his face in Keith’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss seeing you every day.”

“Me too. Thanks for tonight.”

He felt Lance’s shrug. “‘S nothing.”

“It was  _ so much _ , Lance. It meant the world to me.”

Lance pulled away, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Keith let his arms drop. “Well you mean the world to us, so it’s only fair. Try and stay in one piece on the ice, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed.

Lance’s smile faltered a touch. “I should, um, go. I guess.”

He nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you sooner!” He took his hands off Keith’s shoulders to shoot him a pair of finger-guns, taking a step back. His gesture faltered, along with the confidence in his grin, after a beat of silence from Keith. “Y’know, ‘cause like… TV.”

He scoffed. “Good _ night _ , Lance.”

“‘Nite, Keith.” He slipped out the door, letting it click softly behind him.

Keith stepped forward to lock up behind him, resting his free hand on the door. He lingered there a second longer, feeling regret curdle in his gut—unsure if he regretted almost confessing to Lance, or the fact that he missed his chance.

He told himself it was the former. He stepped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week’s chapter will likely be late (like late late, not “these chapters are always late” late); I have a week off of classes which means I’ll be very busy catching up on assignments and with family obligations. In addition, the next chapter has a LOOT of stuff goin on and I wanna do that shit justice.
> 
> Anyhow hope y’all enjoy Thanksgiving if ur celebrating it tonight, and the weekend in general if u don’t. I’m gonna go chug some Buckley’s now, this cold is killin me OTL
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** Lance let out a soft chuckle, his posture relaxing. “So wow, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I guess this was a surprise in more than one way.”
> 
> “Yeah, I guess it’s… are you free Sunday?”
> 
> He quirked an eyebrow. “Working morning shift, but other than that no concrete plans.”
> 
> Keith nodded. “Alright, good. I need you to come to dinner with me.” Both of Lance’s eyebrows shot up in intrigue.


	7. Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now back with the team, Keith gets an invitation to attend a dinner party with a few of his linemates, electing to bring Lance along as his plus-one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hope u guys are well. Sorry this chapter’s super late, like, a lot later than I wanted or expected it to be. School and life have been really demanding and unfortunately it’s taken up all the time I want to use for writing. Luckily for me I’m starting therapy again, so I’m hoping that’ll make the stress a bit more easy to manage and thus help me juggle all my shit better.
> 
> I’m gonna be honest and say I’m not wholly sure what the updates are gonna look like from here on in. The fic itself, I’ll reiterate, is completed, but it’s a matter of me getting the time to do the editing. From here on in, weekly updates probably won’t be happening, but I’ll try to keep myself to some modicum of a schedule.
> 
> Anyway, onto the chapter itself, she’s a funky one. It was equally fun and a t o t a l pain in the ass to write, which is always a good combination. More underage drinking--fellow emetophobes there’s no vomiting dw!
> 
> Also I’ll say this outright, no one in this fic actually passes the threshold of getting drunk, if that’s something people are uncomfortable with. In my experience--particularly when I was younger--the word “drunk” gets thrown around at basically anything past the first drink. So I just wanted to make that clear, in case anyone was feeling iffy about that, or in case anyone thought I legit thought this is what being drunk is like (because I don’t lol--new year’s 2017 taught me all I needed to know about getting drunk. RIP every shred of my dignity after that night.)
> 
> So yeah *jazz hands* here’s the chap

Keith pulled a towel out of his open bag and threw it over his soaking hair, rubbing it as dry as he could get it. He was wondering idly if Lance was right, and he really  _ should _ cut his hair, when he stumbled forward at a hand giving his back a wet slap (he’s very sweaty right now,  _ sue him _ .) His shins hit the bench before he got the chance to brace a hand against the wall before him.

“Man, it’s good to have you back, Keith! I’ve missed your sharp tongue—Stillsy hardly even notices the rest of us, he’s so busy yelling at you.”

He straightened, flipping the towel back from his eyes and turning to face his teammate Connor—a recent call-up from the minors, he was a defenceman drafted by the team in the second round the year before Keith. His dark hair—though buzzed and far shorter—dripped about as much as Keith’s, and his pale face glowed a beet red, the flush trickling down his bare chest and stopping just below the jut of his collar bones. He grinned widely at Keith, hands going to his hips.

Keith scoffed. “I wouldn’t have a problem if he’d stop trying so hard to control the practice.”

“Funny, I think I heard him say the same thing about you.” Keith rolled his eyes, turning back to his bag. “I’m sure he missed you too, Cakes. He’s just got his own way of showing it.”

“Miss me or not, I’m just glad he let me back on the ice.” He dug his phone out from under some spare tape, glancing at his notifications. He scrolled past some Instagram live video notifications and saw a couple of texts from Lance. He gave a soft smile and slipped the phone in the front pocket of his sweatpants, deciding to save them for when he got to his car.

“Hey,” he thwacked him on the shoulder, this time with a lot less force, “so are you coming to Mike’s on Sunday?”

Keith glanced over at him curiously. “What’s at Mike’s?”

“Oh! Well he invited all the younger guys to have dinner on Sunday—said he’s done it every year with any team he’s played on for a while now. It’s sort of like a family meal thing for the young guys, especially the one’s from out of town who don’t get to see their own, but he’s letting me and Jay come along too.”

He furrowed his brow. “I mean, he hasn’t asked me—” He cut himself off when Connor turned his attention to something behind Keith, waving a hand over his head, then beckoning with it.

“You’re inviting Cakes to your Sunday thing, right?”

The bench on his other side groaned as someone came down on it, Keith turning to find Mike smiling up at him. “Of course, just haven’t had the chance to ask him, yet. This Sunday, 6 PM. It’s casual—or, you guys say ‘low-key,’ right?—and you can bring a plus-one. Usually it’s a parent, but you’ve got your brother up here with you, right? You can bring him.”

“Or you could bring your  _ girlfriend _ ,” Connor taunted, earning a stern eye from Keith.

“You guys talking ‘bout Keith’s girlfriend?” He heard from across the room, and Keith rolled his eyes, waiting for Jackson to inevitably rush over and sling an arm around his shoulders. It took a total of two seconds, Jay tugging him close and tsking in his ear. “I can’t believe you’d tell  _ these  _ goobers about your secret girlfriend before you’d come to me—honestly, I’m insulted!”

Keith tried to elbow him away, but Jay didn’t let up on his grip. “I’m not; we’re talking about Mike’s dinner—”

“And you’re bringing her as your plus-one? So am I! Well, I’m bringing Sarah— _ your _ girlfriend is up to you to bring.”

“God, what is it with you guys? For the last time, I don’t  _ have  _ a girlfriend.”

“What, she’s your fiancée now?” Connor jeered, prodding him in the side. “You’re a little young to be engaged, Cakes.”

He pointedly ignored them both, turning to Mike. “I’ll pass the details on to Shiro. Who else is coming?”

“Just these two and their guests,” Mike replied.

He gave a wry smirk. “Ugh, so I’m stuck dealing with  _ these  _ assholes all night?”

Jackson gave a scandalised gasp, sliding off Keith’s shoulder. “So  _ rude _ ! God knows what the fuck your girlfriend sees in you, buddy.” He rounded Keith to Connor’s side, mussing up his sweaty hair before hooking an arm around his neck and dragging him off, no doubt to gossip some more about the hypotheticals of Keith’s nonexistent love life.

“Well,  _ whoever  _ you bring,” Mike pushed to stand, “make sure they come hungry—my wife makes a killer casserole.”

Keith smiled politely to hide a grimace. He’d never tried casserole before, but having social media in the twenty-first century had taught him to be wary. “Thanks, I can’t wait for Sunday.”

* * *

It wasn’t until after he came home to an empty condo—midway through his shower—that Keith realised his fuck-up.

* * *

“ _ Lance _ !” He threw open the store’s front door, as eager to get out of the cold as he was to find him—he swore his wet hair had already begun to crystallise from the temperatures outside, and his hastily-donned coat was doing very little to combat the chill.

The boy behind the counter practically yelped, starting in his seat and nearly falling off it, scrabbling for purchase on the counter as a comic book went flying from his hands. Once stabilised, he looked up at Keith, clutched a hand to his heart, and whined, “Fucking Christ, Keith—you  _ trying  _ to give me a heart attack?”

“S-sorry,” Keith faltered, “I—uh—”

“Just— _ come in _ . Don’t let the heat out, god dammit.” Keith obliged, running his hands through his damp hair in the hopes that it’ll unfreeze and/or dry up a bit quicker in the heat. With that, Lance’s posture relaxed, and he let out a soft chuckle. “So wow, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I guess this was a surprise in more than one way.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s… are you free Sunday?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Working morning shift, but other than that no concrete plans.”

Keith nodded. “Alright, good. I need you to come to dinner with me.” Both of Lance’s eyebrows shot up in intrigue. “It’s this family dinner thing that Mike—y’know, from the team—he does it for the younger players, for like, team bonding or some shit. I told him I’d bring Shiro with me, but I forgot that Shiro’s not here, so you’re going to be his stand-in.”

Lance held up a hand, furrowing his brow. “So wait, hang on.  _ Mike D’Souza _ —”

“ _ Lance _ ,” he groaned through his teeth, “if you’re going to get all weird and starstruck around these guys, then I’m  _ not  _ bringing you.”

He gave a tiny, incredulous laugh. “Well, why do you even need me in the first place? You can’t go alone?”

“Ugh,  _ no _ .” He leaned his elbows onto the counter before him. “Everyone’s bringing someone, so I’m not going to know at least half the people there, and if everyone pairs off and I’m alone it’s awkward, or they’ll try to force me into small talk, and—”

“Alright, alright.” He laughed, waving a hand. “Just tell me who else is coming, so I can prepare myself to be in the presence of  _ celebrities _ .”

Keith snorted. “You talk to  _ me  _ literally every day.”

“I’m talking actual stars here, Keith. You’re not special to me anymore, I’m sorry to say.” He dodged Keith’s swipe with a laugh, then a shriek as he really  _ did _ topple over on the stool, reaching for the shelf behind him but failing to save himself, and sending merch scattering onto the floor with him.

* * *

He and Lance were perfect for each other, really.

Not—he didn’t mean like  _ that _ . He meant more in that they currently both had their ass glued to their car seat, exchanging nervous glances over the console to try and prompt the other to take the charge. Keith started it by unlocking the car doors. Lance retaliated by unbuckling his seatbelt. Neither wanted to be the first out.

“Well, we’re here,” Lance started. “We  _ are  _ here, right? This is the right place?”

“You’re asking  _ me _ ? I’ve never been here before.”

“What, like I have?—Ugh, just—it’s forty-five, right? We’re going to 45, is that  _ this _ house?”

“Well…” He pulled on the steering wheel, leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of the illuminated numbers over the garage door. “It  _ looks  _ like it says forty-five to me.”

“‘Kay.” Lance took a deep breath, then turned to Keith, baring his teeth. “Am I good?”

Keith quirked an eyebrow. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do I got anything in my  _ teeth _ , man?”

“No, you’re good.”

He dropped the sneer. “Do I look okay?” He flipped down his sun visor, utilising the mirror on the obverse to fuss with his hair, frowning. “Should I have gelled my hair? Ma told me I should’ve gelled it, but I didn’t listen to her—”

“It’s fine. What, do you think they’ll care?”

“Wh—I—” Lance huffed, slapping the visor back up. “ _ Sorry _ if I want to make a good impression for you, Keith.”

“I  _ know  _ you will,” he snapped, “that’s why I brought you!”

Lance opened his mouth to argue something back, but something dawned on his face, and he clamped it shut. “Oh. Wh—I…” He turned away briskly, wrenching the door open and stepping out. “‘Kay, well if anyone says anything about my hair or teeth then it’s on  _ your  _ head, and you owe me something. I don’t know—you’ve got to buy me a new car.”

He folded his seat over and leaned into the back, pulling out the wrapped tray of brownies he and Hunk had made from scratch last night (because Lance’s mom insisted they had to bring something, and they were too young for it to be a bottle of wine.) Keith breathed a soft sigh of relief, unbuckling himself and climbing out his side. He silently waited for Lance to straighten out of the back seat, tray securely in hand, and shut the door before tapping the lock button on his key fob, leading them up the long driveway.

Lance easily caught up, hovering in Keith’s peripheral vision as the latter cast his eyes downward, fussing with his scarf as he tried to ignore how stiff and itchy he felt in a cardigan (one Shiro picked out for him, obviously—he felt like he was probably the only gay guy out there with absolutely zero sense of fashion, honestly.)

“Hey.” Lance elbowed him in the side, drawing his gaze. “You’re thinkin’ pretty loud over there. You’ve got nothin’ to worry about: you’re looking at Lance  _ Charles  _ McClain—life of many a party back in my high school days!” He pointed a thumb at himself, grinning proudly.

Keith snorted. “There’s no way that’s your real middle name.”

“Believe it, son. Named after my grandpa, Charles Reginald McClain—A.K.A. my white last name origin story.” His smile softened. “But seriously, what are you worrying about? These are your friends, Keith. They’re not here to judge you; they just want us all to have a good time.”

He sighed, casting his eyes up to watch the wisps of his breath disappear into the dark evening sky. “I know you’re right, but it’s… I’m not good at people.”

“I think you’re better than you give yourself credit for. But hey, in your own words, you think they’ll care? You being awkward isn’t news to us, but it’s part of why we love you” Keith opened his mouth to protest, but Lance punctuated that statement with a wink, and it fell flat. They stopped on the welcome mat, and Lance lifted a fist to the door, rapping it loudly. “Okay so I knock, you talk, alright?”

“Wh— _ really _ ?” He laughed, thumping a fist against Lance’s arm. “I haven’t heard that line since middle school—”

The door swung open with a burst of light, and they were greeted by the sight of Connor MacGuire stuffed into an ugly bright red Christmas sweater. “Hey! Keith made it!” He announced over his shoulder, then held out his hand for Keith to take. He did, the two of them momentarily embracing each other with the other arm before the hold was relinquished, and Keith stepped past Connor into the house. “Wow, I do  _ not  _ see the family resemblance.” He was obviously appraising Lance, and Keith turned in time to catch Connor’s gaze back on him, lips pulled in a smirk. “You sure you’re not adopted or something?”

Keith frowned. “I  _ am  _ ad—”

“How’s it?” He didn’t even wait for the reply before turning back to Lance, thrusting out a hand. “I’m Connor.”

Lance transferred the brownie platter to the other hand, accepting the handshake with a warm smile. “Hi, Lance.”

“Shiro couldn’t make it tonight,” Keith kicked off his boots and unwound his scarf, “so I invited Lance instead. He’s a good friend of mine, and a huge fan of the team.” He shucked off his coat, hanging it up on the coatrack.

“Really now,” Connor mused, brushing past Keith.

Lance gave a sheepish laugh to Connor’s retreating form, then held the tray out to Keith. They exchanged possession of the brownies at the same time as they did a look, Lance’s eyes blowing wide as he mouthed, “ _ Oh my god! _ ”, slouching off his coat and throwing it over Keith’s.

Keith breathed out a, “Don’t,” giving Lance’s shirtsleeve a tug with his free hand before following Connor, Lance falling in step at his side.

The dining room table had barely come into sight when he heard a familiar, “Hey Cakes! Where’ve you been?”

Keith tried to ignore the incredibly intrigued (and definitely  _ too amused _ ) expression blossoming across Lance’s face, and instead looked to address Jackson, seated at the left hand of the head of the table, his arm casually thrown over the back of Sarah’s chair next to him. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” Lance announced, very clearly failing to hide his laughter, “could you repeat that for a second? I’m not quite sure I heard you.”

Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lance, I swear to god—”

“Aw Cakes, what’s the problem?” Jackson jeered.

“Yeah  _ Cakes _ ,” a thrill practically went through Lance’s body as he said it, “he’s just saying hello.”

“It’s our coach Stills’s nickname for him,” Jay explained, “and he  _ hates  _ it when we use it. Don’t you, Cakes?”

“I love it.” Lance clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning madly. “It suits you so well, Cakes.”

“Call me that  _ one more time _ , Lance, and you’re going to wish you dressed for a game instead of a dinner party.”

“Enough,” Mike walked in from the kitchen, a pitcher in one hand and the other held up in the universal call for peace, “I brought out the good plates for tonight, and I won’t have you kids breaking them in a scrap.”

He willed himself to drop it with a roll of his eyes as the room began to exchange greetings, ‘ _ nice to meet you _ ’s overlapping with ‘ _ good to see you _ ’s, introductions going around the table in a quick overview of everyone present: Jackson and his girlfriend Sarah, Connor and his father (whose name went in one of Keith’s ears and out the other immediately—he spent the following twenty minutes sending desperate glances Lance’s way in the hopes that he’d get the hint, before ultimately caving and texting him the question under the table while the salad was cleared,) Mike and his wife Tiffany, and Keith and Lance.

As Lance had predicted, dinner went swimmingly. As Keith had, it was all thanks to Lance. He was totally in his element, engaging with such ease you’d think he was everyone’s childhood friend. And when conversation dissipated and people partnered off—as Keith had feared—he adjusted seamlessly to that too, leaning in and regaling Keith with ridiculous stories that left him struggling to keep in his giggles.

He was just about wrapping up the story of how he’d snuck into one of Hunk’s physics lectures on the day of a pop quiz—and was now failing a class he wasn’t even registered in—when their conversation was interrupted.

“Hey Lance,” Connor asked from across the table, idly pushing around the remnants of his cake with a fork. Lance’s eyes went a bit wide in surprise, and he straightened out to blink nonplussed across the table. “I’ve got a super important question for you.”

Keith didn’t like the mischievous glint in his eye, nor the way Jay immediately seemed to tune in to what Connor was saying, leaning forward on his elbows on the table as Sarah simultaneously vacated her spot to chat with Leonard (Connor’s dad, that is.) “Oh my god, yes!” 

Keith clued in about a moment before Connor opened his mouth to say it, and barely had the time to groan before it came out. “Dude, you’ve  _ got  _ to tell us about Keith’s secret girlfriend!”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up, then furrowed in confusion after a beat. “His… secret girlfriend?” He must’ve caught his tone, because he eased his expression in the blink of an eye, sitting back with a chuckle. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Guys—” Keith’s protest was cut short by a flourishing hand gesture from Jay, who was now kneeling forward on his chair, looking at Lance in his best attempt at earnesty.

“‘Kay, so Keith’s got this thing about not wanting to tell us about her, I don’t know why—but he’s  _ obviously  _ got this girl—”

“And she’s got him whipped,” Connor contributed.

“Yeah yeah,  _ so  _ whipped. He texts her before and after every game and practice with this dopey-ass smile.”

“I don’t—”

“Cakes, big boys are talking! Anyway he’s literally  _ constantly  _ on the phone with her, and he’s always turning down other girls too—and these  _ girls _ , holy fuck—but he won’t tell us anything about her!”

“Because she _ doesn’t exist _ ,” he insisted, hoping to god Lance wasn’t connecting the dots along the way—Lance knew he didn’t have the time to spend with anyone else, after all.

Connor and Jay sent Lance twin looks that said ‘ _ you see what we mean? _ ’, the former speaking up. “C’mon Lance, you know you can tell us.”

“I…” he trailed off, his smile falling a tad.

He turned to Keith, his expression a silent question. Keith couldn’t quite distinguish if he was asking ‘ _ do you actually have a girlfriend? _ ’ or ‘ _ why didn’t you tell me about her? _ ’ He hoped to god he was only imagining the hurt he read in Lance’s eyes. He did his best to convey his plea in his own expression, vowing to explain it all—or at least some of it—to Lance later.

In an instant Lance turned back to address the others, reaching out for his wine glass at the same time. “Sorry guys. That’s Keith’s business, and none of mine.” Their faces fell in response, though Lance didn’t even bother to look. He instead downed the rest of his half-emptied glass in a swig, expression lightening when he set it back down. “Now I’ve got one of my own for the two of you: y’ever seen him get drunk?”

The matching pouts his teammates donned were immediately wiped away, and Jay spoke up. “What? No.  _ No _ —Keith, why have I never seen you get drunk?” He demanded.

“I’ve never seen him  _ drink _ ,” Connor added. “Not before tonight, anyhow.”

Lance side-eyed Keith’s recently emptied wine glass, snatching it in one hand and grabbing the bottle in the other. “Want to see a party trick?”

“No— _ Lance _ ,” he whined, reaching out for his hands while Lance progressively held them just beyond reach, Keith pressing into his side and gripping at his wrists for naught, as Lance continued to pour. “I have to drive.”

“ _ I’ll _ drive,” he insisted, nudging Keith away with his hip as he finished his pour. “I’ve only had one, and  _ I _ won’t get us lost on the way home.”

He clicked his tongue. “We weren’t  _ lost _ —”

“There,” Lance interrupted, pushing Keith along as he straightened back into his chair, plopping the drink in front of him.

“C’mon Cakes,” Jay egged him on, “let’s see your wild side!”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You make me  _ want  _ to drink when you call me that.”

“What,  _ Cakes _ ?” He grinned cruelly. “Cakes, Cakes, Cakes,” he chanted, Connor joining in quickly after, fists beating against the table in tandem.

He looked to Lance, who offered him a warm grin, leaning in to whisper. “Look, if you really don’t want it then I’ll drink it. But you  _ can _ , Keith. Whatever happens, we won’t judge you, I promise.”

And  _ fuck _ , Keith couldn’t  _ stand  _ it when Lance looked at him like that, ignorant of everything around him, gaze focused unfalteringly on Keith. He felt naked beneath it, in every sense of the word, and the thought of it terrified him just as much as it thrilled him. Lance  _ did  _ things to Keith when he looked at him like that, and Keith was convinced he’d do anything for Lance when he looked at him like that.

He gave a resigned smile, grabbed the glass, and downed it in one go. The table burst into cheers.

* * *

Two Drink Keith apparently likes to sing, but Three Drink Keith? Fuck, Three Drink Keith  _ loves  _ to sing. The party was more than willing to accommodate his desires, setting up a makeshift karaoke session with most everyone taking turns to share his spotlight (because Three Drink Keith, much like Sober Keith, does  _ not  _ like waiting for his turn.)

As all good things must come to an end, they’d managed less than one full round before everyone else decided it was time to turn in. Lance pulled him off his stage (A.K.A. the free space in front of Mike’s coffee table) with an arm around his waist and a “c’mon buddy, you did great,” guiding him towards the mudroom as everyone else followed.

Keith breathed a “Thanks,” as Lance helped him into his coat, and once he’d rewound his scarf, Keith turned to offer a hand himself.

Lance waved his assistance off, already half done getting re-dressed. “Mind getting me your keys?” He asked instead.

As Keith searched his pockets, he heard Mike pipe up. “You sure you’re good to drive, Lance?”

He took the keys once Keith offered them up, using the hand that clasped them to wave the concern off. “We’re only ten minutes away, and I’m staying at his tonight.”

“Alright, make sure you drive safe.” Keith busied himself with the task of pulling his boots on, trying his best to keep from stumbling while balancing on one foot, and nearly managing.

“G’nite,” Lance announced to the house, and Keith straightened to echo the sentiment, holding a hand up as Lance opened up the front door. A hand landed on Keith’s shoulder and guided him out.

Keith shivered as the cold air hit him full-force once more, and Lance sidled up next to him, shielding him from the brunt of an errant gust. His hand slid to Keith’s middle back, rubbing against his coat in an effort to generate a little friction. “D’you have fun?”

Keith smiled, nodding emphatically. “It was fun.”

“Good.” The hand fell away. “I’m glad.”

Courage bubbled up in Keith’s throat, and before he knew it he was talking again. “I always have fun when I’m with you, Lance.”

All too soon they were separated by the car. Lance looked over the roof, from the driver’s side now, and smiled at him. “Me too.” He opened his door and slid in. Keith quickly followed, wanting to spend as little time away from him as possible. “Y’need..?” He half-asked as Keith buckled himself in, retracting his hovering hand when they both heard the seatbelt click.

Lance turned the car over, flexing his hands before easing the car in gear. “God, I regret offering to drive—why couldn’t you own a Corolla, Keith?”

“Corollas aren’t sexy,” Keith answered simply, leaning his head back.

He heaved a sigh, turning onto the street. “No, they are not.”

“Teslas are sexy.”

“I-I—” The reply was caught halfway out, before Lance snorted. “Well,  _ someone  _ seems to think a lot of himself.”

Keith hummed, shutting his eyes. “Don’t crash my car, Lance.”

“I won’t. Don’t fall asleep, Keith.”

He grunted. “I’m  _ not _ .”

“You  _ are _ , and then you’ll be all pissy at me when I have to wake you up in ten.” Keith sighed, reluctantly opening his eyes and shifting more upright to prove his consciousness. “We’ll get back, and you’ll have a bit more water, then we’ll go to bed, alright?”

He hummed his assent, watching the street lights as they passed across the soft planes of Lance’s face. His eyes seemed to droop slightly from his exhaustion, but his jaw clearly tensed as he fought to concentrate on not crashing. His eyes flicked this-way-and-that to keep track of traffic as they navigated out the suburb and back into the city proper.

“Y’hear me?” Lance asked.

“I said  _ yes _ ,” Keith grumbled, and a tiny smile broke out on Lance’s face, more a crinkle of his eyes than anything else. Keith’s gaze fell to the hand resting on the gear shift, to the fingers that beat a consistent but unidentifiable beat against it.

“Eyes still open?” Lance asked after a minute.

“Yeah,” he breathed, curling up on his side as he watched the beat, content to listen to the sounds of the city and Lance’s breathing rather than guess whatever song the other was trying to beat out.

* * *

“Kitchen,” Lance instructed as soon as they made it through the door. They both tossed their coats onto the dinner table, then Keith made a beeline towards the aforementioned room. “Get me a water too, why don’t you?”

“What am I, your slave?” Keith scoffed, already grabbing two clean glasses and heading to the fridge.

He heard Lance scoff from the living room. “I’m sorry, did you just say: ‘Thanks Lance for coming with me tonight, and driving me home, and being just all around an awesome friend?’ Well you’re  _ so welcome _ , Keith!”

He stifled a laugh, pulling out a pitcher and filling both glasses, then electing to leave the pitcher out—both his hands were going to be occupied, and besides, water couldn’t go  _ bad _ . When he left the kitchen, he saw that Lance had already tucked himself into his favourite corner on the couch, an arm thrown over the back and his legs crossed before him. Keith set the glass down on the coffee table in front of him, then rounded the table towards the other side, downing his glass in one go.

That pulled a small chuckle out of Lance. “At least we know you won’t be hungover, but you’ll have to pee something fierce in a few hours.” Keith laughed, setting his glass down before dropping onto the couch, the back of his head colliding with Lance’s arm. “You ready for bed?”

Keith shrugged, shifting closer to Lance and turning to rest on his side. “In a minute.”

Lance smiled, his gaze sweeping across the darkened room. “You’re cuddly when you’re drunk too, aren’t you?”

“Not drunk anymore,” Keith corrected—he was back down to buzzed, he figured, “and not cuddly,” he insisted, even as he rested his head against Lance’s shoulder, his vision swelling with the rise-and-fall of Lance’s chest in his every breath, “you’re just warm.”

Lance scoffed, but said nothing more, rubbing his eyelids with the heel of his hand. Keith felt the slightest pang of guilt at the sight—Lance was obviously tired. They should go to bed. He couldn’t control the smirk that came across his lips at the thought of sharing his bed with  _ Lance _ —it was big enough that they obviously weren’t going to find themselves entangled in the middle of the night, but Lance hadn’t even hesitated when Keith had suggested they share a bed, and dammit Keith was desperate enough to need a little fantasy fodder, you can let him have this.

It wasn’t like he was going to  _ act  _ on it, after all.

Lance dropped the hand, then noticed Keith’s prolonged staring. He glanced over with a smirk and half-lidded eyes. “What’re  _ you  _ lookin’ at?” He whispered.

… Okay, so maybe he was.

He brought his hand up to Lance’s far shoulder, anchoring himself as he tilted his chin up. Fearing what he’d see in Lance’s expression, he dropped his eyes down to his lips instead, the smirk on them fading as they parted. Keith screwed his eyes shut once confident he wouldn’t totally miss the mark, socked feet pushing against the hardwood to help him close the distance between their faces.

When they collided—and with Keith’s lack of experience, combined with the impulsivity of this decision, ‘collided’ was the operative word—it felt as if a dam had burst in his chest, and Keith let himself be swept away by the torrent that poured out. He was in way over his head, and it was such sweet surrender to no longer fight to keep above water. His heart raced, self-preservationist instincts kicking in and begging him to pull away, telling him that it wasn’t too late to keep fighting.

But then, Lance moved. The arm he’d slung across the couch curled around Keith’s shoulders, the other sliding across his lower back. He pulled back until their lips barely brushed, briefly adjusted their angle, then dove back in with fervour, the fingers of his lower hand fisting at the hem of Keith’s shirt. And if Keith was drowning before, he didn’t even  _ know  _ what was happening to him now—now that Lance was kissing him back.

Oh god. Lance was  _ kissing him back _ .

Keith brought his other hand to match the one still on Lance’s shoulder, sliding them up to grip onto his collar and tug him in, trying to get closer, closer,  _ more _ . He furrowed his brow as he practically attacked Lance’s mouth, so desperate after so goddamn long that he wasn’t about to let a mere lack of experience stop him now. Lance laughed into the kiss—and  _ god _ did that do things to Keith’s insides—a hand sliding up into Keith’s hair and mussing it with fingers that tangled in the long strands, an attempt to guide Keith in the correct direction that was appreciated, if not entirely heeded.

By the grace of poor timing to their push-and-pull and Keith’s (perhaps ill-advised) bravado, his attempt at introducing tongue into the kiss resulted in him licking a stripe up Lance’s chin. Lance couldn’t contain his laughter any more, and he pulled away, ducking his head to stifle a fit of giggles.

“ _ Jeez _ , Keith,” he breathed, releasing Keith’s hair to wipe his chin off with the back of his hand. Keith watched reverently, wondering why the hell he’d waited so long to do this.

And then it hit him.

“Oh god.” Lance froze, his smile falling at the panic they’d both so clearly heard in Keith’s voice. “Oh…  _ fuck _ .”

He snatched his hands back from Lance’s shirt, pushing Lance’s hand away and backing himself up along the couch. He dropped his head and ran his hands through his bangs, deciding that the opposite side of the couch still wasn’t enough distance, and sprung up to his feet, rounding the coffee table once more to give himself more room to pace while he processed this.

Lance moved to his feet in Keith’s peripheral vision, a hand reaching tentatively out. “Keith, listen to me—”

“ _ I’m not gay _ ,” he blurted, his feet finally planting themselves beneath him while he looked up to Lance, eyes pleading.

Caution marked Lance’s expression, echoed in his tone. “No one’s saying you are,” he soothed, and the honest belief in Lance’s tone is what broke him.

“God, no—fuck.” He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing into his temples. “I am. I’m gay.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Lance rush over to his side. “You don’t have to label it if you’re not ready. There’s no rush to name what you feel.” He rested a comforting hand on Keith’s shoulder, gentle enough to feel barely there.

He huffed a wry laugh and dropped his hands, feeling the tears well up in his eyes as he brought them up, boring his gaze into the wall. “It’s not; I’ve known for a while now.”

“How long?”

“Like, six years.” His smile started to tremble, and he took a shaky breath to try and steady himself. Six years of hiding who he was from  _ everyone _ , from strangers to teammates to his own family. He looked to Lance. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” he replied without hesitation, brow furrowed in earnest. “Who else knows?”

“No one knows.  _ No one can find out about this _ ; there’s just so much on the line, Lance—”

“I get it, don’t worry. You don’t have to justify anything; it’s not in the cards for you right now.”

It should’ve been a relief, by all accounts, to hear those words. Instead, the misery crested anew, and he dropped his head into his hands once more. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not sure what he was apologising for. Be it the kiss, coming out to Lance, not doing it sooner, crying—he was just  _ sorry _ .

“Hey, don’t be,” Lance soothed, moving in for a hug.

Keith panicked, stepping back and bracing his forearm against Lance’s chest. “Lance  _ please  _ don’t.” He needed space, because having Lance close  _ obviously  _ didn’t help him think clearly.

He immediately relinquished, stepping away. “Right, okay. Listen: it’s late, and we’ve both had a bit to drink. Why don’t we turn in and figure this out in the morning?”

Keith swallowed, proud of how steady his reply came out. “Alright.”

Lance nodded. “You take the bed, I’ll crash on the couch.”

“What—no, don’t be ridiculous, Lance.” He looked back to him, and he swore he saw a glimmer of something in Lance’s eye.

“It’s no problem, honest.”

“I already changed the sheets, and I’m not letting you take the couch for me. You take my bed. I’ll sleep in Shiro’s tonight.”

Lance’s expression changed in the subtlest of ways, but Keith was far too wrung out to understand how. “It’s a deal.” He scooped up his still full glass of water, then smiled gently at Keith, before turning on his heel. “See you in the morning.”

He swallowed heavily as he watched Lance disappear slowly down the hall, feeling the exhaustion hit him harder and harder with every footfall he heard, until they disappeared with the sound of a closed door. He willed his feet to carry him to Shiro’s bedroom, barely taking the time to slough off his clothes and wiggle out his fake teeth before burying himself in the sheets, trying to shut out his swirling thoughts long enough to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *holds up the water pitcher* y’see it’s a metaphor. A very heavy-handed metaphor that accomplishes very little.
> 
> Happy birthday Keith u get to smooch ur boyo and have an identity crisis. It all works out tho dw bout that second part
> 
> So I hope that was worth the wait!!! If u got like any sort of emotional reaction to that blease let me know--yell at me if you feel u must--because like… I gotta eat somethin
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** Lance’s voice cut through the third ring. “ _Hey._ ”
> 
> Keith wished his heart wouldn’t flutter swell so readily at the mere sound of his voice. “Hey. You wanted to talk?”
> 
> Lance blew a heavy breath. “ _Yeah, I need to talk to you._ ” The tension between them already was palpable— _painful_ , even. Keith had no idea how talking with Lance McClain of all people could be difficult, but he already knew it was something he never wanted to experience again. “ _I_ —” he halted himself, seeming to amend/edit his words in the moment. “ _Let me just start by saying I didn’t want to do this over the phone._ ”
> 
> Anxiety gripped him, the pain searing in his gut. He sat up. “What do you mean?”
> 
> “ _I wanted to do this face-to-face, but you’re never not here. Figure this was better than doing it by text._ ”
> 
> “Lance, you’re scaring me.”
> 
> “ _Keith,_ ” he sighed, and he was unsure if it was an admonishment or an attempt to soothe him.


	8. Collateral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith clears up a misunderstanding over the events of last night. Lance makes a tough decision for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi welcome to the angst *plays a G note on the piano* but y’all know what that means: we’re almost at the end of the fic!!! I’m ngl I’m a lil bit teary over it. But hey it’s not over yet, we still need to have things happen! Like this chapter, where there are things and boy howdy do they happen.
> 
> See this is the kind of imaginative description you guys’ve subscribed to this story for. Sub to my pseud for more word mastery and klance
> 
> Last thing I was originally gonna bitch abt how the Leafs can’t seem to win a game at home but as of posting this we’re winning in Pittsburgh so like… can I complain? I really shouldn’t. Let’s go bois blease I loh u don’t make me cry 2nite

Keith woke up with tack in his mouth and his sheets kicked to the floor. He rolled out of bed with a groan, running his tongue across the backs of his teeth and regretting not brushing them last night. To remedy that, as well as to vacate his heavy bladder, he dragged himself to the bathroom, then padded across the empty apartment towards the kitchen when finished. He grew increasingly aware of the absence of a pounding headache, thankful for Lance’s foresight the night before.

_Right, Lance._

Keith tried to hold on to the hopes that what had happened last night was just some crazy dream he’d concocted, but when he saw the pitcher he left out on the counter, he figured those hopes were dashed. If he remembered something as innocuous as that correctly, he probably wasn’t fabricating the more prominent events of the night. He stuffed the pitcher back in the fridge, pulling the dishtowel off the oven’s handle and wiping down the condensation left behind.

He made an impulsive mistake last night, and was damn lucky Lance had taken it all in stride.

Abandoning the rag on the counter, he head towards the coffee machine, figuring the least he could do to thank Lance for his understanding was make him a coffee. His mind drifted inevitably back to the kiss, and he suppressed a shiver at the memory of Lance pulling him close—

But no. He shook the thought off. It was pointless to delve into what that reaction meant, because he and Lance had no future down that road. No sense dwelling on ‘ _maybe_ ’s when the reality is a ‘ _can’t be_.’

He was pulling the coffee tin out of its drawer when he heard a door open from within his condo. By the time Lance stepped into the kitchen, Keith was idly watching the coffee fill the pot drip-by-drip, leaned his elbows on the counter with two mugs on standby beside him.

“Morning,” Lance greeted, voice chipper despite the remainder of a sleepy rasp. Keith muttered something akin to the same back, watching him approach out the corner of his eye. “How’re you feelin’?”

Keith shrugged. “Fine. No headache.” He stiffened as Lance’s hands settled on his bare hips, warm chest pressing against Keith’s back as his chin hooked onto Keith’s shoulder. _Wow_ , Keith thought, _he’s really taking this well_ …

“And you’re making coffee too? What a gentleman.” His hands slid higher up Keith’s sides, and when he turned to press a sensual kiss to his neck Keith started.

“A- _agh_!” He practically jumped out of Lance’s grasp, an elbow colliding with something along the way when he pushed Lance’s hands off, and he turned to send him an aghast look.

Lance held his hands up in the universal sign for surrender, guilt ebbing into the shocked expression he wore. “Sorry—”

“Lance, what are—” Keith sputtered, “we _talked_ about this last night, don’t you remember?”

“Yeah…” His brow furrowed, and after a beat of silence he let his hands slowly lower to his sides. “But now I’m thinking I misunderstood.”

Keith winced as Lance’s face seemed to flip the switch from confused to hurt. He placed a hand down on the counter to steady himself, forcing himself to keep eye contact. “I can’t date right now, Lance. Not with the way things are for me.”

Lance shook his head, stepping closer. “This doesn’t have to be dating—we don’t have to call it that, or _anything_ if you don’t want to. We’ll keep it casual, figure out what we like—”

“ _No_ .” Keith’s fists curled up. It hurt so much but he had to be firm; there was no room for compromise on this. “It won’t—that’s not what I want, and I _know_ it isn’t what you want either.” He took a steadying breath. “You deserve someone who can be proud to call you his boyfriend, someone who can show you and the whole world how much you matter to him, and that’s not me.”

Lance rolled his eyes, dropping his gentle pretense. “Oh fuck that, Keith; who could give a shit about what I deserve? I want _you_.” He took another step closer, until they were toe-to-toe, but Keith held his ground.

Keith furrowed his brow, matching his sudden brusqueness. “Well, you can’t have—”

“And I _know_ you want me too,” he continued, undeterred by Keith’s interjection. His words were sharp, but his hands came softly to hold Keith’s face. “And dammit Keith, if it’s what we both want then what’s so fucking _wrong_ about it?!”

“I can’t—”

“Why not?!”

“ _Because_ !” He surprised even himself with how loud he snapped, enough to make Lance flinch. He ripped the hands off his face, gripping Lance’s wrists tight enough to make his own hands shake. “God Lance, you don’t know what it’s like. It’s terrifying—it could _ruin_ me if anyone knew.”

“Who, Keith? _I’m_ here, right now—Only me. Don’t you trust me?”

Keith grit his teeth. “It’s not _about_ trust, it’s about risk; my teammates already think you’re my girlfriend, and for fuck’s sake it only took me three drinks before I was shoving my tongue in your mouth!”

Lance winced uncertainly. “Well _technically_ —”

“Fucking—” Keith growled, “not my point! _Mistakes_ , Lance. That’s my point. They’re going to happen no matter how careful we are, and I don’t have a margin for error on this.”

“So what, kissing me was just a mistake to you?”

“Oh don’t make _me_ sound like the bad guy—”

“No, you’re doing a pretty damn good job of it yourself!”

“This isn’t what I wanted! What, you think I _like_ living like this? It wasn’t my first choice—believe me—but it’s what I have to do.” His own statement took the wind out of him, and he took a shuddering breath to compensate.

Despair was written across his face. “How long do you think you can keep this up, Keith?”

“As long as it takes. As long as I’m playing, I can’t…” he tried to come up with the right words, but inevitably fell short. “I just _can’t_ ,” he reiterated, letting Lance’s hands go and wrapping his arms around himself.

Lance let his hands drop to his sides, his gaze holding Keith’s with an almost primal desperation written in his eyes. Keith feared Lance would try kissing him in a Hail Mary, knowing that he wouldn’t even try to stop him if he did. It trickled from his eyes though, which fell to the space between them.

“Alright.”

He swallowed, hit with a sinking disappointment at Lance’s forfeit. “I’m sorry.” It felt like such a vacant thing to say, but it was all he could offer.

He drew a shaky sigh, then lifted his head, gaze askance as it settled on anything but Keith, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Don’t, it’s—” He cut it short with a clipped huff, turning on his heel and rushing out the room. “Y’know what? I’ll pass on the coffee. I don’t want to be late for class anyway.”

Keith’s throat practically closed up when he heard how cold Lance’s tone was. “Do you want to grab anything to eat?” He called out tentatively.

“It’s fine!” Came his reply, a stiff emulation of the carefree Lance he’d come to know. “I’ve just got to get my shit.” When Keith heard his steps echo back into the main hall he stepped up to meet him in the front room. Lance busied himself with pulling on a t-shirt while juggling his overnight bag, throwing his coat over his arm as he passed it on the dinner table, stuffing his feet into his boots haphazardly as he clearly rushed to get the fuck out of dodge. “I’ll uh… just get out of your hair now.”

Keith’s heart fell. “Lance, I’m s—”

“Don’t apologise.” He straightened, giving Keith a pained smile. “Not again. It’s too Canadian for you.”

Despite everything, it tugged his lips into a weak smirk. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

Lance bit his lip, failing to save his smile, and Keith regretted speaking up. “Right, I guess I’ll be off.” He turned to make his hasty retreat.

Keith once again failed to rein in his traitorous mouth. “I’ll see you soon?” He cursed himself how hopeful he’d sounded.

Lance halted in the threshold, half-glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

The door shut behind him, and Keith’s apartment was silent once more, save the boiling of the coffee machine.

* * *

It was a bit ridiculous, really, to expect a message now; he’d told himself as much countless times. It had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d settled things, and it was perfectly within Lance’s right to need a little room to breathe right now.

Besides, it’s not like he owed Keith a message in the first place. It’s just that Keith had grown accustomed to finishing a game to a string of messages waiting in his texts, and to finish one without it was… weird. It left a strange sort of emptiness in the pit of his stomach, one he wasn’t happy to admit had been caused by anyone he wasn’t… well, not _blood_ related to, but legally bound to.

He’d played a good game tonight. He scored the opener and assisted on the game-winner, and overall he thought it was a night that the whole team should’ve been proud to play. But most of all—and again as ridiculous as it was—he really hoped Lance had seen it. Old habits die hard, as they say.

But he’d gotten to the dressing room, nothing. He’d loaded onto the bus, nothing. He’d heard nothing when he shut his phone off on the plane, and when he woke up on landing and turned it back on his messages were still empty.

When he made it to the hotel room, his resolve broke. He fell back onto the bed and fired off a quick text.

 **[Keith:** Hey, did you watch the game tonight? **]**

He regretted it the moment he’d pressed ‘enter,’ dropping the phone against his stomach and groaning at his lack of self-restraint—it was a school night, for fuck’s sake. Lance would already be in bed by now—

His phone buzzed in his hand, and he quickly picked it back up.

 **[Lance:** Of course I did. I always watch when you play, Keith **]**

His lungs relaxed. He could breathe again, unaware of when he’d stopped being able to. His phone buzzed once more.

 **[Lance:** Can you call me? **]**

 **[Lance:** I know it’s late **]**

Keith paused momentarily for a ‘but’ that never came.

 **[Keith:** Sure, one sec **]**

He dialed Lance up, resting a hand on his stomach as he listened to the ringing tone. Anxiety reared its ugly head, but it was too late to change things now. Keith hadn’t even hesitated long enough to allow it the chance to make him second-guess his decision.

Lance’s voice cut through the third ring. “ _Hey_.”

Keith wished his heart wouldn’t flutter so readily at the mere sound of his voice. “Hey. You wanted to talk?”

Lance blew a heavy breath. “ _Yeah, I need to talk to you_ .” The tension between them already was palpable— _painful_ , even. Keith had no idea how talking with Lance McClain of all people could be difficult, but he already knew it was something he never wanted to experience again. “ _I_ —” he halted himself, seeming to amend his words in the moment. “ _Let me just start by saying I didn’t want to do this over the phone_.”

Anxiety gripped him, the pain searing in his gut. He sat up. “What do you mean?”

“ _I wanted to do this face-to-face, but you’re never here. Figure this was better than doing it by text_.”

“Lance, you’re scaring me.”

“ _Keith_ ,” he sighed, and he was unsure if it was an admonishment or an attempt to soothe him. “ _I don’t think I can handle just being friends anymore_.”

Keith’s brain stalled. “Wh… I thought we agreed we couldn’t be a thing—”

“ _No, I know. We did, and I’m not saying we should_.”

“So then what _are_ you saying?”

“ _I’m saying_ …” There was a sniff on the end of the line, his voice wavering when he continued. “ _I can’t handle this, Keith. I have feelings for you, and it’s making it too hard for me to be close to you_.”

He wasn’t proud of it, but he turned his hurt right back on Lance. “Bullshit, Lance! I’ve dealt with my feelings for you for half a fucking year, and now you’re telling _me_ it’s too hard?”

“ _So did I!_ Fuck _Keith, I’ve been keeping it down since the day you showed up on my doorstep, soaking wet_!”

“So what’s different now?”

“ _Because now I know you feel it too—and maybe_ you _can ignore that, but I sure as hell can’t_ —” he cut himself off with a short hiccough, then the air was filled with static, Lance obviously having turned the speaker away.

“So that’s it?” Less a question, more a statement. “You’re giving me an ultimatum: either date you or lose you.”

“ _Don’t say it like that_ ,” he pleaded.

“It’s not fair; you can’t ask me to choose—”

“ _You already made your choice! Hockey over me, and that’s fine! I understand that you have to put your own interests first, but then you can’t be mad at me for wanting to do the same_ .” Keith didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily Lance seemed to have more. “ _I spent so much of my life putting everyone before me, I deserve to think of myself for once_.”

“I…” The counter-argument died in Keith’s throat.

After everything Lance had done for him, wasn’t this the least Keith could do? That was what Keith told him before, after all: Lance deserved better than what he could give him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew Lance was right, but it hurt to admit that what was best for Lance was to let him go.

“I’m going to miss you.”

Another heavy sniff sounded on the other line. “ _I’ll be watching every game. And who knows, maybe after some time… we can revisit this_.”

“Okay.”

“ _As friends_ ,” he clarified. Keith nodded mutely, but it almost seemed like Lance knew, because he waited until Keith stopped to continue. “ _Goodbye, Keith_.”

“Goodbye—” The line went dead. “... Lance.” After a second that stretched too long, he hung up the phone, tossing it across the covers. He forced himself to get up and ready to sleep in yet another strange room, another strange city, closer to Arizona than he’d been at the start of the day but feeling farther from home than ever before.

* * *

They went 3-for-3 on the road trip, then Keith scored the OT winner on the first game home to extend their streak to four, then five, then six. Night after night, Keith arrived either to an unfamiliar hotel room or an empty condo, tossed his phone onto whatever table was convenient—and promised himself he’d answer Shiro’s texts when he got to it, though likely it wouldn’t be ‘til morning—then threw himself back onto the nearest soft surface, the post-game exhaustion hitting much harder this last stretch.

“ _Keith Kogane has really been hitting his stride_ ,” the TV would say in a post-game recap. “ _Something’s clicked for him. He’s found what works and he’s running with it_.”

“ _He’s an absolute animal on the forecheck_ ,” the radio would concur, “ _the way he just attacks the play—all you kids better start taking notes_.”

Of course, it wasn’t all accolades and praise. He’d been wrung out by one too many referees for talking back, and on more than one occasion his lip service had him sent to the penalty box. It was practically all they could do to keep him from scoring though; nearly every shift had produced a quality chance from him, and he was averaging almost a goal a game these past few weeks.

“ _Kogane’s become unstoppable on the ice_ ,” they’d say. “ _His only problem now is trying to stay out of the penalty box long enough to score_.” But the crowd roared for him on the ice, and as soon as he was off it, the silence roared in his ears instead.

And that was okay. This was what he decided, after all. This was how he put himself first, or at least that’s what he told himself as he watched his phone screen light up beside his head on the couch cushion, displaying a new text from Shiro.

 **[Shiro:** U still up bud? **]**

He rolled over on his tiny couch, promising himself he’d get up and eat something in a little bit. Then he’d text Shiro back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so like the next update will be the last and I can’t believe we’ve gotten so far T^T next update’s gonna be both the last chapter and the epilogue (and it’ll probably take me a little while so if u don’t hear from me within a week dw about thatttt) If u wanna keep apprised of me, check out [my tungl](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/) where I reblog Good Good voltron art and other things
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)
> 
>  **Next chapter preview:** Stills steepled his hands together over the desk, seeming to examine him Keith a quick moment. Keith squirmed under his gaze, itching to get out of there as soon as possible and almost wishing Stills would just yell at him, because at least _that_ he could understand.
> 
> He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and finally started. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”


	9. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the simplest conclusion is the hardest to come to. But it’s worth it when you get it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I DO own Hero Burger. Also the Toronto Maple Leafs. Keith and Lance own each others’ hearts, respectfully, and my mom has a Magic Bullet. Like she doesn’t own the company, she just got one.
> 
> OKAY SO WOW HI AGAIN it’s been a little while, and welcome to the last update for Convenience (are u crying? ‘Cause I’ve been sobbing nonstop for like three days editing this bullshEt) Shit’s gonna have more sap than a cabane à sucre, and it’ll be jUST AS SWEET.
> 
> Double-update today because u babies r werth it, epilogue's comin right afta this
> 
> I want to say thank you for everything. Thank you for reading, commenting, sending me messages, reblogging, reccing, and just for being part of this story with me. Y’all don’t know how much it means to me, and I hope this chapter and the epilogue can pay back even just a fraction of the joy you’ve given me.
> 
> For the last time (I’M SO EMO) hockey terms!  
>  **Tips:** “tipping” a shot. When a teammate takes a shot at ur opponent’s net, and you stand in front of the other team’s goalie and redirect the shot with ur stick in an attempt to score.

It had been about five years since the last time Keith had been sent to the principal’s office, but the feeling was as fresh as could be as he waited outside Coach Stills’s, having been called there by the man himself.

There had been an… incident at training today. Keith might’ve gotten a little frustrated at his tips being off, and he might’ve blamed it on the stick. He also might’ve broken it over the crossbar, and been sent off the ice to ‘cool off for the rest of practice.’

He’d done his best to not stomp off to the changeroom in a tantrum, then threw on his sweats with full intention of going back home and watching cartoons on the couch in his underwear. But partway through getting ready, he had received the summons from Stills via text, requesting a meeting after practice.

Practice was now over, and Stills was due to come down the hall any minute to ream Keith out. He unlocked his phone reflexively, remembering a moment later that he had no one to text with to distract from his anxiety. Not even Shiro—who was usually the last to hear about his misadventures if Keith could help it—was available, currently flying back from his month spent home.

He scrolled up their chat history, trying to make himself look busy as he waited for his reckoning, brainstorming potential lines of questioning and prepping his answers for each one.

Somehow during that coach—of all people—managed to sneak up on him, because before he knew it he heard a very close, “Hey, Cakes.” 

He looked up and Stills was already at his door, fumbling momentarily with the lock before wrenching it open, leading the way in and leaving it open for Keith to follow. Keith froze in the doorway, mind stalling for a moment.

_ Hang on, did he just say ‘Cakes’? _

The nickname was typically reserved for when Keith was on his good side, and he didn’t see how smashing up a stick like it’d killed his dog could end him up there. He furrowed his brow, wary only insomuch as he was confused, and the gentle smile he was treated to when Stills motioned for him to sit did nothing to alleviate either of those. Nonetheless he obliged, taking the chair opposite coach’s.

Stills steepled his hands together over the desk, seeming to examine him a quick moment. Keith squirmed under his gaze, itching to get out of there as soon as possible and almost wishing Stills would just get it over with and yell at him, because at least that he could understand.

He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and finally started. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

He lined up answer #3. “I just—I lost my temper, I’m working on it—”

“No, no,” coach interrupted with a dismissive flick of the wrist, “it’s not about that. You’ve always had a temper on you, that’s nothing new. But something’s thrown you off this past little while, and it’s showing.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I’ve never played better—I’m leading the team in goals!”

He frowned almost sympathetically, but his brow furrowed harshly. “And when you’re not scoring those goals you’re throwing hissy fits—on and off the ice.”

He folded his arms. “The hell’s that got to do with anything? At the end of the day all that matters is that we’re winning games, and what I’m doing is working for me.”

“But it’s  _ not  _ working,” Stills argued. “Losing your cool when you’re tipping less than a hundred percent of your drills in  _ practice  _ is not a sustainable way of playing. Neither is getting into fights with the refs for fair calls, or snapping at your teammates for not being perfect, or beating yourself up for the same thing. It’s not healthy—it’s how you burn out, Keith. And right now you’re on an express train headed straight for it, in the middle of your first pro season, at  _ eighteen fucking years old _ .”

Keith dropped his gaze to the floor at the scolding, and Stills sighed, softening his edges. He leaned forward, elbows sliding along the desk, and spoke a bit more gently.

“Listen, Cakes. You’re not alone. We all care about you—not just as a player, but as a person. I know it sounds like all talk, but I really do want our team to have open discussions about mental health issues, so—”

“Oh, you think—” He picked his head up and shook it. “I’m not—It’s not like  _ that _ , or—”

“Keith, there’s no shame in it, but we’re all worried about you. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before, and the last thing I’d want is for you to hurt yourself—”

“I’m not going to hurt myself, coach.”

“Even still—”

“Fuck’s sakes—I’m not depressed; I’m gay.” Stills’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, and he sat up straight. Keith groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Okay, so you’re right. Something did happen.”

“Hey, look at me.” When he hesitated, Stills clicked his tongue. “C’mon kid, I won’t bite.” With a sigh he lowered his hands and lifted his head, catching the earnesty in Stills’s eyes. “Thank you for trusting me. So this is why you’ve been struggling this past little while?”

“It’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not new to me. I’ve known for a while that I’m… you know.” He waved a hand, as if that would contribute any semblance of meaning to the vaguery. “I mean, there’s only so many times you can watch High School Musical and pretend that it’s for the plot and not shirtless Zac Ef—not the point.” He pinched his brow. Where the hell did  _ that _ come from?

“So what’s changed?”

“I met this guy.” He laughed at how cliché it all was. “God it sounds so  _ stupid _ to say, but it’s not like that—or, it is, but—”

“Breathe, kid. Just explain it to me.”

“Right, well… I met him on draft weekend, back in July. We became friends and I, uh.” The sentence lost steam, and he cleared his throat, trying again. “I mean, it started out as just a crush, but we got closer, and I… it’s like what they tell you in those mushy romance stories: he’s my best friend, and he can always make me laugh, and I—”  _ you’re rambling, Keith _ , he mentally shook himself. “Anyway, I found out in no uncertain terms that he feels the same way back, but with hockey… I turned him down, and he took it hard.”

“Seems to me like you both did.”

Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “He told me he understood that I had to put myself first and choose hockey, but he had to put himself first too, and that meant going our separate ways.”

“So that’s why you’ve been throwing yourself into the game.” He shrugged, and Stills sighed. “Keith, that’s not choosing yourself first; that’s choosing hockey over everything.”

“I wish I didn’t have to choose in the first place. But it’s not worth sacrificing my future for a teenage crush—I  _ know  _ that.”

“You’re a smart kid: I think you and I both know it’s bigger than that. It isn’t just one boy; it’s your right to live the way you want to.” Stills’s sincerity grew a bit too intense to bear, and Keith lowered eyes to the desktop between them. “It’s part of who you are, Keith, and you’re doing a disservice to the people who care about you when you hide it.”

“I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

Stills nodded sagely. “Keith, I want to tell you a story about a player I knew. A very promising talent in the amateurs, he had a lot of potential and the drive to surpass it—maybe not NHL, but he could’ve been pro. But he was gay, and he didn’t hide it. When he came out, suddenly his teammates weren’t so keen to pass to him. His coach was benching him more, and when it came down to it, he held the kid back from the opportunities that would’ve given him the chance to excel.”

Keith brought his eyes back up, and now it was Stills who looked away. 

“I know, because I was the one who did it. Like most other guys he eventually grew out of hockey, moved on to college, and started his own business, then a family. He kept in touch, and invites me up to dinner every year.” He finally looked back to Keith, smiling softly. “He’s got two girls, the sweetest kids you could ever meet.”

“Well… that’s good, right? In the end, he’s happy.”

Coach blew a small laugh. “He managed all of that  _ despite  _ me, Keith. And I live with that regret every day: the knowledge that I let my insecurities stop me from helping a player reach his full potential.” He gave Keith a very earnest look. “I promised myself I’d never do that again, and I’m promising it to you now. I know it feels like career suicide, but if anyone’s going to be able to come out and have a successful career, it’s you. You’re a generational talent, kid; no team who wants to win is going to cut the legs out from under you. Now,” he sat back, “I won’t pressure you into making any decisions, but if you’re looking for support, you’ve got it from me.”

Keith bit his lip. “Could I? Would… do you think the other guys would be alright with it?”

“I can’t speak for them, but I can tell you there’s no room in our dressing room for anyone who isn’t.” He sighed. “You’re just a kid, and you deserve the freedom to  _ be  _ a kid; make some mistakes, fall in love, get your heart broken. You shouldn’t have to hold back because other people might not be ready for all the great things that you are.”

Keith gave a weak laugh. “I think I’ve managed to check off that whole list already.”

Stills smiled. “Again, no pressure, but if you ever feel ready, let me know and we’ll make it happen.”

“Maybe. I… there’s just one person I have to talk to first.”

* * *

Keith wiped his sweaty palms dry on his jeans. Ten seconds later, he found the need to do it again. He huffed, rolling his eyes at his own nerves, currently materialising as a bounce of his knee that shook the airport bench he currently sat on.

Wasn’t the point of this whole thing that Keith was doing it on his own terms? If he wasn’t ready yet, he didn’t have to do anything. No pressure. He could tell Shiro today. He could tell Shiro tomorrow. He could even tell him _never_ , if that’s what he really wanted. In fact, that was starting to sound like a good idea. He’d made it—what, fifteen years?—without telling Shiro, what was another sixty or seventy?

A passerby suddenly clipped his foot, pulling him out of his reverie. He flicked his eyes up—nope, not a passerby. His foot stopped bouncing.

“What, were you waiting for someone else?” Shiro smiled benevolently down at him, flesh elbow propped up on the extended handle of his suitcase. In an instant, the events of this past month—all the turmoil, the self-pitying, the emotional bullshit—crashed into him.

He pushed off the bench and threw his arms around Shiro’s neck. Shiro took a pace back with the momentum, as well as a moment to process it, then wrapped his arms around Keith, squeezing as tight as he could.

“Hey kiddo,” he soothed, and Keith tried not to laugh—suddenly he was eight years old again, sitting on their driveway and blubbering over his scraped knee, “I’m here, now. Whatever’s going on, it’s going to be alright.”

Who was Keith kidding, this was  _ Shiro _ . The Shiro who’d accepted Keith wholeheartedly as his real brother from day one. The Shiro who played goalie for Keith every day after school for hours, even when he had tests and SATs to worry about. The Shiro who’d promised Keith he’d come back from deployment, and survived a fucking bomb to keep it. The Shiro who’d moved across the continent and to a whole other country for him, away from everything and everyone he knew, just so Keith could chase his dream.

How could he have ever doubted his big brother?

“I made a mess,” he confessed into Shiro’s shoulder.

“That’s okay. There’s no mess a little time and a little help can’t fix.”

Keith pulled back from the hug, pushing Shiro gently away. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve wanted to say for a long time now.”

Shiro’s smile gave way to full-on earnesty. “Of course. Anything.”

“Okay,” he said, more for himself than Shiro. He took a deep breath, then held his head high. “I’m gay.” A rush of relief flowed through him, despite the ongoing anxiety surrounding the response; at least now, the ball was out of his court. “And I want to come out publicly.”

For a moment—one, painfully long moment—Shiro’s expression remained impassive. Then, a grin blossomed across his features, and he threw his arms around Keith, laughing in his ear. “No way, are you serious?”

Keith blinked, nonplussed.  _ What the fuck? _ “Uh… it’d be kind of a shitty joke if I wasn’t.”

Shiro snorted. “I’m gay too.”

Keith’s eyes went wide. “What?” He pushed Shiro to arms length, gauging his sincerity. Shiro merely shrugged, goofy grin unaffected, and Keith thwacked a fist at his shoulder. “Shut up, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not kidding! I had a boyfriend and everything.”

Keith laughed, rolling his eyes. “Okay, so now I  _ know _ you’re lying—who’d ever want to date you?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I was something of a heartbreaker back in my day—I have  _ moves _ .”

“Gross.” He stuck his tongue out, pushing Shiro away and going for his suitcase. “Anyone I know?”

“Nah, just someone I met on tour.”

“Right,” he drawled incredulously, leading the way back to parking with a tug on the suitcase’s handle, “so your girlfriend in Canada.”

“Boyfriend in Canada.”

“Boyfriend in Canada,” Keith amended.

“He was  _ real _ , Keith,” Shiro insisted, coming up beside him.

“Did he have a first name?”

“Yep, and a last one too.” Keith scoffed, and Shiro nudged him with his elbow. “So hang on, did you tell mom and dad yet?”

“Did  _ you _ ?”

A pause, then, “We can do it together. In any case, you have to tell them before you tell everyone else.” He checked his watch, then picked up his pace. “It’s not too late for them if you want to do it tonight; and hell, if we hurry, we can still grab Hero Burger before they close.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, quickly tailing him. “ _ You’re _ buying us fast food? The night before a game?”

Shiro looked over his shoulder, not breaking pace. “Consolation or celebration, depending on how it goes. You’ll keep it a secret, right? Since apparently you’re  _ so good _ at it now.”

Keith snorted, but far be it for him to complain.

* * *

Four down, two to go.

This is what he and Stills had come up with together: morning practice, he’d tell the team, pre-game he’d tell the press—Stills reminding him all the while that if he got cold feet, they could call it off. He couldn’t imagine the press being all too pleased at that, although he’d never much cared for them anyway.

But again, it was the assertion that there was no pressure—or at least,  _ outside  _ pressure—on this. This was all Keith. And he was starting to think that could be more of a good thing than a bad one.

So when Stills finished his short post-practice spiel, and looked to Keith in what they both hoped was a subtle glance, he didn’t hesitate to answer with a firm nod, using his stick to help push off his knee and skate up to his side.

“One last order of business, boys. Cakes got some news to share.”

He parked himself next to Stills, looking out at the slightly confused faces of his tired teammates, wondering how they would react, apprehensive of it. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, jostling him amicably. That show of support gave Keith just enough courage to say it.

“I’m coming out to the league. I’m gay.” He gave them a moment to react, some eyes widening and some hands shifting on sticks, and he thought he might’ve heard a whisper or two, but he didn’t let it stop him. “I wanted to tell the team first; I didn’t want you guys to find out when everyone else did. I hope this doesn’t change how you think of me.”

“I want to say, before anything else,” coach announced, “that the team supports inclusivity in the sport and the league, and if anyone has a problem with that, we’ll be more than happy to accommodate a relocation.” Keith didn’t know how much he believed that, but he appreciated the icy tone with which Stills delivered those words.

It left a silence in his wake, and Keith shifted nervously on his skates, awaiting a response— _ any _ response. Then a hand shot up in the crowd, accompanied by a, “Stillsy, can I..?”

Stills gave a firm nod. “Floor’s yours, Jay.”

Keith chewed on his tongue as Jackson pushed himself up with a grunt. He looked out around the heads he stood above, kicking the pins and needles out of his legs. “I  _ would  _ say if anyone has a problem with this, they’d have to go through me first, but I think we all know Cakes is more than capable of defending himself.” A laugh bubbled up among them all, Jay waiting for it to peter out before continuing, looking up to smile at Keith. “It takes real courage to do what you just did, Keith. You’ll always have a seat on the bench with me.”

Gratitude poured from Keith’s heart, and a grin stretched across his face. With another firm squeeze, Stillsy let go. “Alright boys, dismissed.” He skated off, Keith moving to follow as the rest of the team lumbered up to their feet.

“Hey Keith.” He halted his stride, looking over his shoulder. Mike glided up to him quickly, closing the gap within moments and wrapping an arm over Keith’s shoulder. “Thanks for sharing with us. My sister’s bisexual, and I think she’ll be just as proud as I am when she finds out.”

Keith bowed his head bashfully. “Thanks, Mike. It really means a lot.” He would’ve said more, but another couple teammates skated up to give their congratulations, and Mike took his leave.

By the time he’d made it to the locker room, nearly everyone had thrown in their support in one way or another—guys like Mike who’d thanked Keith on behalf of family members, guys like Jackson who’d remarked on Keith’s courage, and even just guys who jostled him on the shoulder and vocalised their support, all of which was better than Keith could’ve ever dreamed of this going.

Just when he thought it was over, as he was packing up his bag, he felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. He’d barely had the time to see Jackson’s pained expression before he threw his arms around Keith, hugging him as if his life depended on it.

“I’m sorry, Keith.” It all threw Keith for a loop—this was lasting far longer than a ‘bro hug,’ just after Keith had come out, and ‘sorry’? Did he  _ hear  _ that right?

Keith had the vague impression that his hands were stuck out in the open air, so he wrapped them around Jay’s shoulders instead. “For what?”

“For being so pushy about the girlfriend thing. I should’ve given you space when you got defensive about it, but my head was so far up my ass—”

“ _ Jay _ ,” he laughed, “it’s fine. It was chirping; it wasn’t meant to be hurtful. Honestly, it was a bit of a comfort to know you all didn’t immediately figure out I was gay.”

He pulled away to arm’s length, hands coming to rest on Keith’s sides as a tentative smile formed on his lips. “So… secret boyfriend, then?”

He barked out a laugh, pushing him off and turning back to his bag. “You’re  _ fucking  _ joking.”

Jackson cooed. “ _ Ooh _ , y’know that’s not a ‘no,’ Cakes.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” he declared.

He plopped down on the bench, leaning into Keith’s peripheral vision. “But there was a ‘he’?” Keith gave a noncommittal grunt. “Was it Lance?” He froze, and figured that was probably as incriminating as anything. Jay gasped, shoving him. “ _Cakes_! Oh my god, listen: he’s totally into you—he was all over you at Mikey’s dinner! Like, I don’t have gaydar or anything—”

“It’s not that easy.” He winced. “Things got complicated between us—”

“What, did you fuck?”

Keith flushed, turning on him. “Wh— _ no _ !”

Jackson quirked an eyebrow. “Did you kiss?”

“Well… yeah.” His shoulders sagged. “But then I turned him down, and now I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me. I know I wouldn’t.”

“Would you forgive  _ him _ ?”

“Of course,” he answered immediately.  _ Unquestioningly _ . He loved Lance, and he’d still love him even if he made a mistake.

Jackson gave him a crooked grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “Then I think you’ll be okay. Mark my words, Cakes, you’re going to get that boy back, for good this time.”

* * *

He’d had enough practice now that those two little words came out less like he was choking on them. He hoped that one day it’d be as easy as breathing, but for now he’d take what he could get.

“I’m gay.” A flurry of camera shutters ensued, and he did his best to hold his head high, remembering that his family and his team stood behind him now. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t planning on coming out—for a long time I didn’t think I could—but…” he paused, trying to remember the speech he’d concocted with Shiro’s help.

Then decided to go a little off-script.

“Someone taught me that I deserve to put myself first, and I realise that means being proud of myself— _ every part _ of myself. I shouldn’t have to hide who I am to be able to chase my dreams, and neither should anyone else. I’m Keith, I’m a forward for the Toronto Maple Leafs, a first overall draft pick, and I’m gay. None of those things contradict another.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Stills standing to the side of the podium—who offered him a smile and a thumbs-up—then turned back to continue.

“When I came out to my coach, he told me that I’m doing a disservice to the people I love when I hide a part of who I am, and it’s true. I hurt someone by pretending to be something I’m not, and I’m trying to make things right.” He cleared his throat, then returned to the original message. “I want to thank my family and the Maple Leafs organisation for their unwavering support, as well as my teammates for their acceptance. I hope that this can be the start of a more inclusive culture in the sport as a whole. Thank you.”

The questions poured in as soon as he finished, seemingly never ending, but he did his best to answer them all, thankful that—be it on the stage or in spirit—he wasn’t standing alone.

* * *

 

“What hopes do you have for the impact of your decision to come out on the sport as a whole?”

He ran a hand through his bangs contemplatively, pushing them out of his eyes without much care for whether or not they stuck up, so long as they stopped dripping sweat on his face. “I want to change the culture of toxic masculinity in hockey. We’ve started with initiatives—as well as the bravery of some athletes—to push for more open discussions of mental health issues, and I want to do the same for LGBTQ players. I’m sure I’m not the only guy who felt the need to hide his identity to get a chance to play, but I hope we can give each other the courage to accept every part of who we are. It’s not easy being the first to stand up, god knows I could’ve used one of my hockey heroes coming out when I was a kid, but… I think that’s why it was important for me to do it: so kids like me wouldn’t  _ have  _ to grow up without someone to look up to.”

Another reporter leaned forward, their recorder practically right under his nose. “So do you think this makes you a hero?”

“Well… guess I painted myself into a corner, now, didn’t I?” They all shared a laugh. “But no yeah, It’s part of the deal of making it in this league. You get to live your dream, but it also comes with responsibility. I used to think that responsibility was hiding who I was, but now I realise it’s accepting and celebrating who I am—it’s giving others the chance to do the same.”

“What do you think’s been the reception in the locker room? Has it changed anything between you and the team?”

Keith grinned. “If anything, it’s grown us all closer. All the guys are class acts, and I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better group to play with—”

There was a shuffling at the back of the mass of reporters crowding him, whispers and mutterings distracting them all momentarily. Keith looked back to the reporter who’d just asked the question, ready to continue his answer, but he was cut off by Stills’s booming voice.

“Alright, okay, outta the way!” He barked, voice drawing closer.

Jay’s head broke out between a pair of shoulders, leading the charge of the kerfuffle. “Everyone better give Cakes five, we’ve got a special delivery for him coming through!”

He squeezed in the rest of the way, flashing Keith an almost sinister grin before grabbing onto something on the other end of the reporters. Stills lorded over their heads on the other side, giving a solid shove just as Jackson pulled, and Lance stumbled out from the mass.

Keith’s heart leapt into his throat, as did he to his feet. Once Lance straightened (with a bit of help from Jay’s stabilising grip on his arm,) his wide eyes caught Keith’s. He stood ramrod, paralysed with fear and waiting for Lance to react first, two feet away but practically untouchable.

The commotion of the locker room and the clicking of camera shutters fell away to a deafening silence from Lance, moments stretching an eternity as Keith waited, holding his breath like it was his last lifeline, like he was hanging onto the edge of a cliff by his fingertips.

Lance’s face melted into a smile, and he let it go.

Lance was moving, something Keith’d only registered a moment before realising he was too. They collided harshly—both of them overestimating what was ultimately such a small gap—but it was perfect, because Lance was  _ right here _ in his arms, fingers tangling in the back of Keith’s sweaty shirt with no clear intent on ever letting go.

“You’re an  _ idiot _ ,” Lance chastised without any real conviction. “You didn’t have to go and do that.”

“I know,” he murmured into Lance’s neck, “but I wanted to. It just took you for me to realise that.”

Lance gave a watery laugh. “You’re never going to let me get over you, are you?”

“God, I hope not.”

Somewhere to his left, a voice shouted, “C’mon Cakes, kiss him!”

“Don’t be a sissy!” Another concurred, the whole room buzzing in agreement and encouragement.

Lance pulled back from their embrace a touch, just far enough to shoot Keith an incredulous (and borderline amused) look.

Keith rolled his eyes. “I know. It’s a work in progress, but at least they mean well.”

“Well?” He cocked a hip out, waggling his eyebrows. “You going to plant one on me or what?”

“I…” His cheeks grew warm, his gaze faltering down. “Okay. I guess…” He shifted his hands and contemplated Lance’s mouth—how did he do this last time, again? How the hell was this easier to do tispy than fully sober?

Lance scoffed. “God, Keith—you’re such a  _ boy _ , sometimes.” As if it were second-nature, his hands went to the sides of Keith’s face, tugging him in.

It was tight-lipped at first, a compensation for both the audience and Keith’s surprise, but then he let his eyes shut, pulled Lance a little closer, and they relaxed into each other. They smiled into the kiss as cheers erupted around them, drowning out the whispers of unknown words spoken by Lance against his lips.

Then they pulled away, Keith left breathless and Lance wearing the goddamn goofiest grin he’d ever seen.

“You still suck at that,” Lance commented.

“We can always practice.”

“I’d like that,” he murmured, then his voice picked back up, hands going to Keith’s shoulders. “Okay well this was  _ fun _ , but you stink, so now you’ve got to let go of me.”

He rolled his eyes, though it hardly tempered his smile. “Ugh, I just got off the ice, give me a break.”

“This is a nice shirt!” Lance argued. “And now it’s all soaked in your sweat and  _ grease _ , Keith.”

“Yeah?” He ran a hand through his dripping hair, then mussed it through Lance’s. He shrieked, trying fruitlessly to duck out of reach, pushing against his chest to try and break out of Keith’s hold.

“Will you—Keith— _ is no one going to defend my honour _ ?”

“Alright,” Stills declared, halting their impromptu fight, “five minutes are up, you two.” He nodded to Keith, addressing Lance. “This one’s got to get on the bus, and you’ve got to get back to Shiro.”

Keith dropped his hands, and Lance deflated, turning to him. “‘Kay. Should we—if you want to talk about this later—”

“I love you,” he said, as easy as breathing.

Lance smiled, taking Keith’s hand in one of his. “I love you too.” He gave it a squeeze, then let go, stepping away. “I’ll see you when you get back in town, then?”

“You’ll see me sooner, remember?”

Lance’s grin reappeared, and he shook his head with a chuckle, turning to walk away. He disappeared behind a mob of cheering teammates, who now swarmed on Keith to muss his hair and clap his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I had to write Keith saying “no yeah” in an interview. I needed it.
> 
> Also I’m cancelled because I went an entire fucking hockey fanfic without ONCE using “wheeling” THAT’S MY FAVOURITE HOCKEY TERM??? Someone please delete me I’ve disappointed myself for the last goddam tiME--
> 
> Btw, Keith meant HSM2, not hsm. It was an intentional error on my part, this is good writing based off advice given to me by my grade 4 english teacher. Yeah I remember that shit, I’m flexin on EVERYONE OUT HERE
> 
> Also I just wanted to take some time to address the message I meant to convey, because I fear that it might get a bit lost. Keith came out for himself, not for Lance or their relationship. It was the catalyst that demonstrated to Keith that he didn’t want to be closeted any longer, but it wasn’t the first time his closetedness had caused him internal strife (the fight he got into earlier in the fic demonstrates this.) Not everyone wants to come out. Not everyone feels liberated by coming out. And that’s okay, because at the end of the day we have to do what’s in our best interests; for Keith, this was how he made his happy ending.
> 
> I drew from my coming out experiences to inform this chapter, as well as literature on LGBTQ+ participants in sport from the CAAWS. And while I do think my story came out more on the optimistic side than perhaps the realistic side, it’s the story I wanted to tell. Queer people deserve happy endings.
> 
> Ummmm but also there’s the epilogue coming up??????? In a few minutes. If it’s not up by the time u get here, just imagine me cursing the internet as I scramble to get my shit together. Or maybe just refresh the page. Yeah.
> 
> If you’re enjoying this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/) (if the link's not up yet, it will be up soon after the epilogue is. Pay no attention to the author behind the curtain)


	10. Epilogue - Post-Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our well-earned happy ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EPILOGUE TIME, PLOT’S DONE CHARACTERS ARE HAPPY AND KLANCE IS CANNON KING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I love epilogues because they allow me to be lazy and indulge all my deepest fantasies, like someone actually falling in love with me, or getting to lie down in a bed. Man, could u imagine??? Fuck I’m getting chills just thinkging bout ti
> 
> Just so y’all know, Lance’s jacket is a [hockey thing.](https://www.bardown.com/oshie-s-wife-unveils-new-trend-among-player-wives-and-girlfriends-1.724884/) And WAG stands for “Wives And Girlfriends,” das ya fun fac for 2nite

“Bam!” Lance spun quickly on his heel, hip cocked and hands popping up the lapels of his denim jacket, showcasing the design on the back. Patched over his shoulders was ‘K O G A N E’ and below that, beneath a row of stars, was his number: 22. “Nice, right?” He turned and held his arms up, letting Keith get a good look at the crests donning the sides of his shoulders while examining them himself. “And it came just in time for the game tomorrow night!”

“Is  _ that  _ what you’re wearing tomorrow night?” Keith rested his chin on a hand, facing his boyfriend as he sprawled out on his stomach along Lance’s bed.

Lance frowned, dropping his arms. “You don’t like the jacket?”

“It’s not the jacket, it’s…” he dropped his eyes to Lance’s shoes—sparkling blue stilettos.

Lance clicked his tongue. “Serious? Y’know, there’s constant pressure for openly queer guys to perform heteronormativity otherwise,  _ even from within the community _ —”

“That’s not what this is about,” Keith interrupted, “and you know it. You’re just wearing them to make me look shorter.”

Lance gave a guilty smile, but covered it up with an eye roll. “I’m compensating for the extra height your skates give you. And it’s not  _ just _ you, or did you forget that Shiro’s bringing his new boo tonight.”

“Old,” Keith corrected.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance rolled his eyes. “I know, the heart-wrenching drama of Shiro and Adam’s forbidden love against the backdrop of American militarism.” Keith scoffed, but Lance continued, unabated. “But as uplifting as the tale of their reconnection might be, it ain’t lifting me up the five inches that these girls give me, and I refuse to be the shortest one there—it’s a matter of  _ principle _ . Besides, they make my ass look  _ fantastic _ .” He turned, pulling up the hem of his coat to demonstrate.

“Guess I can’t really argue with that.”

He let the coat drop, twisting this-way-and-that in his full-body mirror. “I know what I’m doing, babe. I’m the first male NHL WAG, I’ve got a reputation to live up to and I plan to deliver. So, I look good?” He turned to Keith for one last verdict.

“You always look good,” he answered.

His honesty caught Lance off-guard, and he turned away in a rare display of bashfulness, shrugging the coat off. “So tomorrow night,” he diverted, tossing the coat onto a pile of discarded clothes, “how’s everyone handling it?”

“We’re all pumped. Stillsy’s almost lost his voice from shouting, so I think we’re ready.”

Lance’s shirt was next to go, Keith’s eyes tracing the curve of his spine. “And you?” Keith grunted incoherently, and Lance turned to give him a frown as he undid his jeans, kicking the shoes off and losing almost half a foot in height. “You think that works on me? After all this time—I’m  _ insulted _ , really,” he insisted, though his over-the-top tone let Keith know he  _ wasn’t _ , really.

“I’m handling it,” he answered honestly. No one had really expected their team’s turnaround to happen in one year, so sneaking into a wildcard spot and qualifying to the playoffs in Keith’s first season was a bit of a shock, to say the least. However, Keith was slowly learning to manage outside expectations and handle the pressure he put on himself.

He reached into the pile and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. “Not dwelling over it?”

Keith shrugged, eyes roaming. “I’m finding ways of distracting myself.”

Lance froze, pants halfway on, then shot Keith a knowing look over his shoulder. “Oh?” Keith grinned, and he finished his work, rounding the bed. “Maybe I can help you with that,” his tone dropped into something sultry, and Keith’s heart quickened in his chest.

He turned over on his back, waiting for Lance to crawl across and lord over him, tangling their legs together. His hands automatically went to Lance’s bare waist when he followed through, bracing himself while at once keeping him close.

“What did you have in mind?” And Keith might’ve been aiming for raspy, but breathless would have to suffice.

Lance’s smile was sinful. He leaned in. “I was thinking…” he muttered slowly against Keith’s lips, a breath too far away to satisfy, “… that you could help me…” he dipped down to Keith’s collar bone, dragging his nose up the line of his throat and prompting Keith to tip his head back to grapple with the sensation, gasping as he squeezed his eyes shut. He diverted towards Keith’s ear, lips brushing against the shell as he whispered: “… study for my linguistics final.”

Keith’s eyes fluttered open, and Lance pulled away to grin at him. He groaned. “Really, Lance? You’re half naked, climb on top of me, and you say you want to  _ study _ ?”

“Want to study? No. Want to  _ pass _ ? Sure do. Plus, we agreed that if I was going to go to your games, you were going to help me with exam prep.”

He threw a hand over his eyes. “Then why do  _ that _ ?”

He felt Lance’s shrug. “Got your attention, didn’t it?” He started to pull away but Keith was quicker, hands going back to Lance’s sides and flipping him over. He quickly moved to straddle him before Lance could react, and once firmly placed took smug satisfaction in the wide-eyed, red-faced expression he’d earned from the other.

“Okay.” He held up a finger, chest heaving as though he’d been winded. “I’m going to admit, that was  _ really hot _ .” He winced, letting the hand drop to his chest. “Fuck’s sakes Keith, you can throw me around like a ragdoll and not even be  _ out of breath _ ? I don’t know whether to be turned on or pissed off.”

Keith leaned in. “Want to know what I think?”

“Don’t tempt me, please.” He rolled his eyes as if put out, but the hands tracing the waistband of Keith’s jeans indicated otherwise. “Alright, since we’re already here we can take  _ five minutes _ , then I actually do have to study.”

Keith shrugged his assent. “Just don’t expect me to keep count.”

(As it turned out, neither of them would.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance lives life titties out in my fanfics. He’s my hero and he should be urs too
> 
> Again, thank you so much for being part of this story with me <3 I can’t believe it’s over! If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reading my other klance fics! I’ve written a [gymnastics AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10821705/), a [high school AU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/796614/), and a [true crime AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597865/). 
> 
> If you want to keep apprised of my general goings and doings, as well as my writing progress (or send me anon messages with fun iguana facts, I don’t know ur life man), check me out on [Tumblr!](http://www.noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Y’all also just so u know, I’ve already planned how these two dum dums get engaged in this universe. Lance has it all super organised and perfectly planned out: they go out and play shinny on an outdoor rink with like their closest friends and family, and he plans to like propose on the ice and he’s got people ready to take photographs like boi is Set. Then Keith at some point absent-mindedly checks him into the boards (forgetting for a moment that no one’s wearing pads) and breaks a couple of Lance’s ribs.
> 
> The whole ride to the hospital Keith can’t stop apologising and after like ten mins Lance is like “babe I love you more than life itself but you need to shut the fuck up right now because it hurts so bad I think I might actually disintegrate right on the spot.” Anyway they get to the hospo and the drs like “oh baby u borken” and Lance is like shit fucks but I’m a romantic motherfucker doctor get me off this bed and on one knee. The dr said no so lance waits until he leaves then he’s like shit fucks but I’m a romantic mofo KEITH get me off this bed and on one knee. At this point Keith’s like “u don’t have to I’m gonna say y--” n Lance is like “NO U DON’T I HAVEN’T ASKED YOU YET SHUT UP AND HELP ME GET ON THE FLOOR”
> 
> Lance gets on the floor and down on a knee, and while Shiro’s blurry phone camera video is the only record retained of that moment, it couldn’t be any more perfect for either of them.
> 
> Also I gave Jay a boyfriend a few years down the line from this fic’s timeline (he and Sarah realise they’re better off as friends, and it ends on amicable terms.) His boyfs name is Isaac and he’s demi-ace and gay bECAUSE I SAY SO!!!!!!!!! Also he has curly hair. It;s cute trust me on this
> 
> Anyhow I’m gonna go fix all the chapter links to navigate to the completed fic now, please say a prayer for my poor disaster bi ass. I love you all and be safe! Smooches!
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic please kudo, comment, rec, and/or [reblog on Tumblr!](http://noussommeslessquelettes.tumblr.com/post/180506412051/convenience-chapter-1-noussommeslessquelettes/)


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